


The Moon Loves Her Shadows

by Frayach



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bestiality, Dark, Drama, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:11:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ingrained prejudices die hard, and sometimes love has its limits.  Like all pure-blood wizards, Draco was taught since birth to hate and fear Werewolves, but when he discovers he unknowingly married one, things no longer seem so black and white.</p><p>  <img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Moon Loves Her Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not for everyone. Please read warnings & tags.

The Werewolf howled and howled and howled. The Moon was singing to it in lullaby whispers, telling it of the thoughts of owls and the dreams of bats. The Moon loved the Werewolf, and the Werewolf loved her back. She swaddled it in her cloak of silver shadows and kept it warm. 

Her light showed the Werewolf everything it needed in the world – the glimmer on the water of a tumbling brook, the glint of a stag’s eye. She swallowed the sounds of killing and dying and turned them into the hymns of trees and the songs of rocks. The bones the Werewolf stripped of flesh glowed in her light, and the red of the spilt blood turned black. She made the world simple. She made the world safe. The Werewolf sang her praises to the sky.

Nobody loved the Werewolf except the Moon. She smiled down on it adoringly and called it her child, her precious child. Her beautiful perfect child.

* * * *

_Just after midnight, February 7, 2012_

 

The black wolf staggered and fell. 

Draco lowered his wand. 

“Good-bye, Potter,” he said loud enough to be heard over the wind.

The wolf’s paws twitched like a dog’s that’s dreaming of chasing a hare. But the wolf wasn’t asleep. Its eyes were staring and wild with pain.

“I’m going to leave you here to die,” Draco told it. “I want you to have time to think about what you did and maybe even come to regret it.”

The wolf whimpered.

“Did you think you deserved a quick death?” he asked. “ _Sectumsempra_ perhaps?”

The full moon was setting through the trees, its light catching on their branches as though it was clinging to the world, reluctant to leave. It would be morning soon. If the wolf didn’t die before the sun came up, Draco would return to find Harry’s naked body. He hoped that wouldn’t happen. Not, he told himself, because he pitied Harry’s suffering, but because he wanted a wolf pelt to place before the fireplace in his study.

The wolf whimpered again, and the wind ruffled its thick sleek fur. Draco turned his back and began the long walk home.

When at last he saw the Manor’s windows glowing softly in the dark, he started to shake and couldn’t stop. A mournful howl rose out of the forest and then fell into silence.

 

 _Midnight, January 1, 2010_

 

Harry screamed and thrashed as the teeth tore through the muscles of his thigh. Somewhere behind the snarling and the pain, he heard a chuckle.

“You bastard,” he ground out.

His partner shouted _Stupify_ , and the Werewolf on top of Harry dropped onto the wet leaves.

“Shut up, you arsehole,” he said, crouching beside Harry and repairing his glasses that were knocked off and broken when the Werewolf lunged and toppled Harry over. “You’re the nutter who thought this was a good idea. Now, lie down.”

Harry lay back, propped up on his elbows and watched through pain-fogged eyes as Fergus tied a tourniquet around his leg, wincing when he tightened it with his teeth.

“Shouldn’t we clean it?” he asked through clenched teeth. “You’re behaving even more Mugglish than usual. I don’t want my leg to go green.”

“It’s the saliva mixing with your blood that does the trick,” Fergus said, regarding his handy work with a satisfied expression. “That’s what causes the Turning. Wash it away too soon and we’ll have to do this all over again.”

He nodded in the direction of the ragged mud-caked animal beside them.

Harry groaned. His veins burned in much the same way his throat did when he swallowed too much Firewhisky too fast.

“How long until we can heal it?”

“At least an hour.”

“Jesus.”

“This was your idea, Potter.”

It was true. It had been his idea, and it was far too late to change his mind. 

“Should we kill it?” Fergus asked with another nod in the direction of the Werewolf.

Harry shook his head. “Hermione,” he croaked.

“Ah yes, I forgot about your bleeding-heart friend and her foundation. I’ll tie it up then – loosely, so it won’t strangle itself during its Transformation.”

Harry fought to speak past the grimace of pain he knew was contorting his face. “I don’t want . . . I don’t want whoever it is to know.”

“That they bit the Savoir of the Wizarding World?” said Fergus. “The news would probably ruin their day, I imagine.”

“Not just that, _no one_ can know,” Harry gasped. “Not even Hermione. _Especially_ not Hermione. She’d go mental. She knows what living as a Werewolf for the rest of my life will mean for me.”

Fergus leaned against the tree next to Harry and slumped to the ground. The full moon’s light made his ruddy face look pale.

“Your friend isn’t the biggest problem. Thirty years, mate,” he said. “Thirty years in Azkaban for a self-inflicted bite. I doubt even you could get less than twenty.” He yawned hugely. “Fuck, I’m knackered.”

“Give me your hand,” Harry said. Tears began to squeeze from the corners of his eyes. Fergus laced their fingers together, and Harry _squeezed_.

“Ow, you bastard,” Fergus said, wincing. “I hope you don’t choke your dick like that when you wank over that bloke you’ve been seeing.”

“We’re . . . just . . . friends,” Harry said, panting.

“Well, that’s more than you used to be, I guess,” Fergus replied. “I heard the two of you were at each other’s throats at school . . .”

“He . . . was a Death Eater,” Harry said. He was sure he wouldn’t have told Fergus that if he was in his right mind. Fergus was protective of him as though he was a mother hen and Harry was his chick, which was amusing considering Harry was usually the one saving Fergus’s arse and not the other way around. Being Muggle-born, Fergus was better with his fists than his wand – so much so that sometimes he seemed to forget he was a wizard.

“You’re sleeping with a bleeding _Death Eater_?”

Harry made a face that was half grin and half grimace. “We’re not sleeping together . . .”

“Yet.”

“. . . and he’s not a Death Eater anymore. He fought for us. Took awhile, but the Order finally convinced him he was on the losing side. He earned a Medal of Valour . . . Fuck, this hurts!”

Smiling grimly, Fergus tipped his head back and closed his eyes. “What’d you think?” he asked. “Turning yourself into a Werewolf would be a picnic in the park?”

Harry closed his eyes too – not because he was tired, but because looking at things was harder than not looking at them. His brain bounced from one unpleasant thought to another. He tried to even out his breathing and think of something comforting.

He was surprised that Draco was the first thing to come to mind. He’d never imagined “Draco” and “comforting” in the same sentence, but there it was . . .

He opened his eyes when he felt the cloak settling over him. He was shivering and sweating as though he had a fever. His ribs ached with every inhale.

“Are you sure I’m not Turning now?” he asked, his voice rasping in his throat. “I feel like a troll’s kicked the shit out of me.” He closed his eyes again and concentrated on the pain, trying to make friends with it – or a least a truce. It was a coping skill he’d learned during the hunt for Horcruxes when his scar used to hurt like someone was trying to saw into his skull with a rusty blade.

“The first Transformation won’t happen until the first full moon after the Equinox,” Fergus replied. He gave Harry his hand to squeeze again.

Harry’s eyes flew open. “But that’s weeks away!”

Fergus shrugged. “Can’t be helped. In the meantime, we’ll just have to keep trying to capture . . .”

“Greyback’s too smart,” Harry countered. “He can smell a human from five miles away. We’ll _never_ get near him . . .”

“Can we stop talking about Greyback for five fucking minutes?” Fergus said. “He’s all we’ve been talking about for three years. I’m too tired.”

“Poor baby,” Harry replied through chattering teeth.

He closed his eyes again and tried to think past the dread filling his heart. It wasn’t sleep, but it wasn’t full consciousness either. He hovered above his thoughts on clouds of pain. He was able to see the full moon even through his eyelids and wondered if that was normal.

He’d be sacked – or worse – if Shacklebolt found out. He might even be executed. . .

Nobody could know except Fergus. The fates of hundreds of people were in their hands. If their plan failed, if Harry was caught, people were going to die. . . 

Self-infliction of a Werewolf’s bite got you an automatic thirty years in Azkaban – maybe more. . .

They didn’t have thirty years. They didn’t even have thirty days. Muggles were being Turned. For now it was being treated as unexplained disappearances by their government, but for how long? Eventually, there’d be a panic that was sure to go global. The perfect scenario for Greyback. His agenda required chaos, and that’s exactly what there’d be if Muggles realised a thing of myths and nightmares was real and in their midst. . .

This was the final option. They’d run out of ideas. He needed to get close to Greyback – close enough to infiltrate his Pack. . . 

Fergus had wanted to Turn too, but Harry had flatly refused. Fergus had a family. Harry didn’t. . .

But he _had_ fallen in love though. With Draco. Despite his Golden Rule of never having affairs with married men. . . 

He’d end it. . .

No, he wouldn’t. . .

Not before he’d had another taste of Draco’s kiss. . .

Then he’d end it. . .

Or at least he was pretty sure he would. . .

If he was honest with himself, he’d admit that he’d been in love with Draco since Draco had joined the Order. . .

Back then, Draco had been hostile toward everyone except Snape, and just in little everyday ways, he’d driven Harry up the wall. Boiling only enough water for his tea and never asking if anyone else wanted some. Leaving his plates in the sink. Lying in till noon when there was work to be done. Picking fights with Ron and occasionally making Hermione cry. Not to mention glaring at Harry and trying to trip him on the stairs. Sometimes he’d found it hard to believe that Draco was actually on his side. . .

But then they’d kissed one night at Grimmauld Place. . . 

It’d started out as just a press of lips, but then they’d opened their mouths, pretty much at the same time. Neither of them had been the “leader.” They’d both explored the sensation together, their tongues touching lightly. Harry didn’t think he’d moaned at the time, but in his memory he always did. He’d been so aroused. He’d reached out and rested his hands on Draco’s waist, and Draco had done the same to him. They hadn’t touched anywhere except their hands and mouths, but nonetheless Harry had been sure he could’ve come with only the slightest encouragement. When they’d parted reluctantly at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, Harry had said something sappy. He couldn’t remember what it was, but it’d made Draco blush and then scowl with embarrassment, which in turn had made Harry laugh and his heart turn over in his chest. . . 

Yeah, he’d fallen in love that night. . .

He was still falling. . . 

Harry resurfaced to consciousness to find someone gently shaking his shoulder. He tried to swat the hand away.

“Damn it, Malfoy,” he grumbled. “Leave off. We’ve been at it all night . . .”

He opened his eyes when he heard Fergus laughing.

“Been at _what_ all night?” he asked in between guffaws.

Harry felt his face turn cooker-hot. “Shut it,” he growled.

Fergus wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Sounds like you’re feeling better. How ‘bout we tie this fellow up and turn him into the regulators?” he said with a nod at the stunned Werewolf.

Harry pushed himself into a seated position. Fergus stood and reached for his hand.

“Get up, lover boy,” he said jokingly, but Harry noticed the concern in Fergus’s eyes when Fergus looked him over.

“It’s okay,” Harry said. “I know what I’m doing. Trust me.”

The apprehension didn’t leave his eyes, but Fergus laughed. “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.” But his smile disappeared along with the echo of his laugh. “Christ, Harry,” he said. “I hope we didn’t just ruin your life tonight.”

 

_Morning, February 7, 2012_

 

The wolf was dead when Draco returned. 

It was midmorning. The sun was so bright and the wind so cold that his eyes watered. He had to pull off his glove to wipe away the tears.

The wolf looked smaller than it had the night before when Draco finally cornered it. He poked at its muzzle with his wand and bared the fangs to remind himself why he’d been so scared. They were three inches long and as white as bone.

They were the last thing his son may ever see.

An owl hooted through the trees. Probably Hedwig. Draco wondered how long she’d stay there. He’d never given thought to what happens to an owl familiar when its human died. Did it waste away like a dove for its mate? Or was it swallowed up again by the wildness of its inner nature? He recalled the sight of her in Harry’s sun-filled kitchen, contentedly tearing apart a mouse on the countertop. Harry had always been too lax with her . . . 

At least he’d never walked in to find Harry, himself, tearing apart some poor beast. Although, if he had, he would’ve known sooner and maybe – _maybe_ – saved his son. 

But he hadn’t known.

Anger overwhelmed him, and he kicked the wolf’s lifeless body. He wasn’t just angry at Harry; he was angry at himself. All of the signs had been there. Working all night whenever there was a full moon and then coming home battered and exhausted. Draco clenched his teeth at the memories – how he’d believed Harry when he said he’d been on one field assignment or another, how he’d cleaned and healed Harry’s hurts and lay down beside him, holding him, murmuring his love into Harry’s ear . . . 

He’d been a besotted fool incapable of seeing his own hand in front of his face. It was as much his fault as it was Harry’s that Scorpius would be maimed for life.

Clearing away the water from his eyes, Draco knelt in the snow and drew the knife from his belt. He’d decided that when this moment came, he wouldn’t use his wand. Magic was too impersonal for the task before him.

* * * *

Harry could never clearly remember in the morning what it’d felt like to be a fully Transformed Werewolf.

His last clear memory was always of the moon, which was odd because he underwent Transformation in a windowless nuclear bunker he and Fergus had made Unplottable. The moon would appear before him no larger than a soap bubble and then grow and grow until it filled the entire space.

The pain always started in his fingers and toes. They grew short black hair and lengthened until there were two to three inches between each knuckle. The nails also grew and then turned as black and sharp as an owl’s talons.

He’d been _Crucio_ ed before, even by Voldemort whose skill at casting Unforgiveables was second to no one’s. He’d been given Skel-Gro for innumerable broken bones. He’d had to live for days with headaches so excruciating that he was ready to lobotomise himself just for a moment’s relief, but even all of these things combined didn’t equal the sheer agony of Transformation. His growing teeth tore his gums and shattered the bone that held them. His spine broke apart at every vertebra, and his skull softened like molten lead and then froze again into its new shape, stretching skin and tendons almost to the point of ripping. Even growing hair hurt. Each strand had the girth of a wheat stalk. They punctured his flesh like blunt needles and grew several inches in little more than five minutes.

But the physical changes were only part of it. During Transformation, each of his senses grew so acutely sensitive that they caused him as much pain as having his pelvis cracked and remade. He could hear _everything_. Mice breathing, grass growing, insects talking. It was terribly confusing at first – every sound seemed equally loud and equally important. The same was true of scents. He could smell a single snow flake from half a mile away. And a drop of blood from even farther. His huge eyes saw everything from the glint of moonlight on the thorns of a briar bush to the bright squares of lighted windows in a distant village. His tongue could taste rain still hours away from falling and the fear of a child waking from a nightmare. When he touched an animal, he felt its pulse reverberate like a clap of thunder and its blood scorch his mouth when he tore out its throat.

He’d be “aware” of what it was like to be a Werewolf for, at most, an hour. He “awoke” when he regained his human senses. Becoming human again felt like being smothered under a mound of blankets – he couldn’t breathe or see. Becoming human again meant losing everything. Strength. Agility. Speed. Hunger. All he could smell was his own sweat, reeking from the exertion and terror of Transformation. All he could feel was pain pain pain.

 _Gwydir Forest,_ he’d gasp when it was safe enough for Fergus to approach him. Or _The North York Moors_. Sometimes even a human settlement: Glasgow. Dublin. Cambridge. Belfast. London. His human mind retained details of places and the faces of humans and Werewolves he’d encountered the night before. He could remember whether the ground he’d covered was wet or dry, whether he’d swam cross a lake or a sea, whether the position of the stars had changed. But he never remembered what he’d _done_.

Or, God forbid, what or whom he’d killed.

When he was in his human form, he tried hard not to think about it. He could hear Dumbledore’s voice in his head talking about “the Greater Good.” He tried to think of things like that – of individual sacrifice in exchange for the health and happiness of the masses. Capturing or killing Greyback was worth the spilling of some innocent blood.

Right?

_Right?_

 

_Midday, February 7, 2012_

 

Draco had never imagined how much strength skinning a carcass required. Even in the frigid cold, he sweated so much that his shirt steamed when he took off his coat.

Harry hadn’t told him. How could he have kept it a secret? He’d fucked Draco like an animal because he was one. He’d filled Draco’s mouth with his filthy animal cock and his body with his putrid animal seed. And once a month, he’d disappeared to tear the throats out of Merlin only knew what or whom. He’d been an abomination. God had turned his back on him just as He had on Lord Voldemort. Harry was no better than the Dark Lord. He was just as impure. His blood was just as rancid, just as polluted.

And then he’d almost killed Draco’s son.

He’d found Harry naked on his knees, still in the midst of Transformation. He’d been howling and snarling and groping at Scorpius’s motionless body with long crooked fingers tipped with razor-sharp black nails. There’d been blood on his shortening snout, staining his dagger-length teeth.

 _Draco!_ he’d cried in a sound that couldn’t even be called a voice.

Whatever he would’ve said, Draco would never know. He’d drawn his wand and Petrified the creature with Harry’s eyes.

If only he’d killed it, then he could’ve avoided this month-long hunt, but he’d only had attention for his son. When his mind turned again to the monster, it was gone.

And so was Harry.

* * * *

“You’re starting to enjoy this way too much.”

Fergus didn’t sound amused.

Harry would’ve rolled his eyes if he could, but as it turned out, wolves had a limited capacity to express annoyance. Anything short of a snarl was impossible.

“I’ll admit that you’re a very handsome wolf,” Fergus said, “but you also look like you’d rip a person’s entire leg off at the slightest provocation.”

Not true, Harry thought, because if it was, Fergus would already be legless.

“Fine,” Fergus said. “I’ll buy you some more steaks, but I really don’t think you should make a habit of living for long periods of time as a wolf. A wolf is merely half a step away from a Werewolf, you know.”

Harry yawned. Fergus looked like he wanted to hex him.

“People are going to find out about you if you keep this up,” he said. “Including Malfoy, which is a possibility I know you want to avoid at all costs.”

Fergus may be wrong about other things, but he was right about Draco. Harry didn’t want Draco to find out that he’d Turned himself. Soon after they became friends and started visiting one another’s homes, Draco had taken him to a room next to the reading parlour on the second floor of the Manor and showed him an impressive collection of Werewolf parts. 

The door was locked, and Draco had had to undo a complicated unlocking enchantment before they could enter. The room had only one window and was panelled floor to ceiling in dark wood giving it the semblance of a vault. The most notable thing in the room was an enormous Werewolf head mounted on the wall about the black marble fireplace. Its jaws were open, and the flickering flames made its eyes look alive with menace. Its canine teeth were longer than Harry’s wand, and they gleamed like polished ivory. On the other walls hung several paws the size of sewing tables, toenails as long as daggers, and skulls whose eye sockets were big enough for a man to put his hand through. There was even a perfectly preserved heart the size of Harry’s head.

“This was my grandfather Abraxas’s favourite room in the whole Manor,” Draco had told him. “While he was alive, he travelled the whole world in search of Werewolf artefacts. He spent a fortune on them. I think the contents of this one room alone are worth as much as the entire library.”

Which was saying something considering the fact that the library encompassed three entire floors and was the size – vaulted ceiling and all – of the Great Hall at Hogwarts.

“He was obsessed with Werewolves,” Draco had continued. “He was the world’s foremost expert on them, and people were constantly coming to the Manor seeking his advice – including several heads-of-state.”

It’d been clear to Harry that Draco was quite proud of his grandfather and his life’s work.

“He was the first to discover that many Werewolves can choose to spend some or all of the time between full moons as ordinary wolves, which, thankfully, made them easier to find and kill. It’s much easier to hunt a wolf than a Werewolf – not to mention safer. See that wolf pelt over there? That was an alpha male of a whole pack of wolf-form Werewolves. Grandfather spent a whole year tracking him and finally killed him. Isn’t its pelt beautiful?”

Harry had looked at the glossy grey and white hair and shuddered.

Draco went to an enormous bookcase and picked up a several-gallon bottle made of clear glass. It was filled with red liquid and stoppered with a lead cork.

“Werewolf blood,” he’d said. “This alone cost grandfather ten million Galleons. It’s corrosive. One drop can burn through a plank of wood . . . or an inch of flesh.” He’d shivered with disgust.

Harry had nodded as Draco held the bottle up to the soft April sunlight spilling through the window.

Wow,” he’d said. He’d wanted to get out of that room more than anything else in the world. He’d only breathed easily again when Draco had closed the door behind them and locked it again with an incantation in a language that sounded Oriental in origin.

By the time of his visit to Abraxas’s Werewolf room, Harry had just started spending a day here and there as a wolf. As he often told himself, he did it to get close to Greyback between full moons, but he was being only halfway honest. The truth was that he loved being a wolf. His senses weren’t as acute as they were when he was a Werewolf, but they were far more acute than they were in his human form. Plus he could cover great distances without having to Apparate. He found he loved “touring” the countryside, running through deep forests and vast moorlands enjoying the scenery and the feeling of complete freedom. He felt every muscle in his body – strong and supple and _alive_. And the more time he spent as a wolf, the more that feeling of aliveness bled into his human existence. When he and Draco started sleeping together, he got more aroused and came harder than he ever had before. Well, part of it was attributable to the fact that he was making love to Draco whom he’d been wanting for literally _years_ , but it also was attributable to his new fierce instinctual animal need.

“You fuck like it’ll be the last fuck you’ll ever have,” Draco had told him the first time they’d slept together. He’d been slick with sweat and his nipples red and very tender looking. His face had been primrose pink, and he’d panted and gasped as though he’d been running sprints.

Harry’s body had still craved him, but Draco had clearly been exhausted. 

“You make me crazed with lust,” he’d said, meaning it sincerely. “In fact, I could take you again if you’d have me.”

Draco had laughed breathlessly. “You can’t mean to tell me you’re still hard. We’ve been at it since dinner and it’s now . . .” he’d _Accio_ ed his watch from the pile of their clothes on the floor, “. . . two o’clock in the morning.”

“Mmm, don’t care,” Harry had said, nuzzling Draco’s neck and nipping his earlobe. “Wanna make you come again.”

And he had. It’d taken awhile, but it’d been more than worth it when Draco cried his name and filled his mouth. It’d only taken a minute for him to come too, buried to the root in Draco’s well-fucked arse. His senses had been on fire – touch, smell, the taste of Draco’s sweat, the sight of his head thrown back and his flushed chest heaving with every breath . . .

“Don’t make a habit of this,” Fergus said, gesturing at the nest of blankets Harry had made for his wolf-self while he was still human.

Harry rested his chin on his forepaws.

“You’ll be hunted and slaughtered if anyone finds out.”

Harry just stared at him. Fergus was worried for no reason. Harry was being careful. No one was going to find out.

And even if Draco _did_ find out, Harry was certain that at this point in their relationship, Draco would get over it. Maybe it would take awhile – even a long while – but Draco would eventually accept the fact that Harry was a Werewolf. Draco loved him. He’d altered his entire life to be with Harry. He’d divorced his wife. Jeopardised his relationship with his beloved son. Undergone the inevitable savaging by the press and Astoria’s family. The discovery that once a month Harry Transformed to hunt down a Dark creature nearly as dangerous as Voldemort had been would be hard for him to take at first. But Draco would see the reasoning behind what Harry had done when he Turned himself. He’d see that it’d been a last resort – that Harry had had no real choice if he was going to destroy Greyback.

Draco loved him. Harry knew that like he knew that the full moon rose and set. Draco woke him every morning with kisses so tender and hungry that it made Harry’s chest tighten at the same time they hardened his cock. Draco laughed at his stupidest jokes and even suffered through a zillion Weasley birthday parties without hexing Ron.

And most importantly Draco healed him and held him when he came home after a full moon claiming he’d been on a field assignment (which was more of an omission than a lie). He drew Harry’s bath and soaped his dirty hair and scrubbed his dirty neck and dried him with thick fluffy towels and gentle warming charms. He positioned the pillows to support Harry’s head just the right way and covered him with clean sheets and a cosy duvet. And then, best of all, Draco kissed his lips, chaste and sweet and long and then lay down beside him, his arm draped lightly over Harry’s chest.

“My hero,” he’d whisper in Harry’s ear with a thrillingly familiar sarcastic drawl and then add later, after a several minutes . . .

 

 

“Seriously.”

 

_Just before the setting of the full moon, January 10, 2012_

 

Harry Potter was a fool.

Fenrir Greyback knew he was dying or about to be captured, but he also knew he had enough strength – and time – left to do what he planned to do. Potter thought he’d incapacitated him and thus hadn’t finished him off. Idiot. What did Potter think? That God was keeping track of how many Unforgivables he cast?

 _I was forced to kill once,_ Potter had snarled in Werewolf-speak just an hour earlier. _I will not kill again. You cannot make me._

If God existed (and Greyback was sure He didn’t) and if He was keeping any kind of count, Turning oneself into a Hell-fiend would be something that’d probably get His attention as much as – or more than – one single _Avada Kedavra_ might. 

Potter had sold his soul to become a Werewolf.

For Greyback.

Greyback hacked out a laugh from his chest full of splintered ribs. Who’d really won in the end?

He rolled over and struggled to stand. Potter had shattered one of his legs with his jaws, but the other three worked well enough. Even injured, he could cover miles of ground at high speed. What had Potter been thinking when he’d left him to get Auror back-up? That he’d remain on the ground like a cowering dog ordered to stay? Potter still had to go through the Transformation before going to the Aurors, and that was still a couple of hours away.

Do-gooder fool.

He should’ve known it was Potter when he began losing members of his Pack, only to learn that they’d been captured and registered and placed in cages – not like the men and women they were, but like the animals they became when the moon was full. So much for the wizarding world’s “progressive new policies.” Werewolves would always be persecuted. Wizards like Potter would always see them as a scourge to be wiped out – even though he, himself, had become one.

And he’d become one because of Greyback. How sweet! How touching! Just as touching and sweet as Potter’s recent wedding had been. If only Potter had known that he was watching, hidden in the shadows outside the window. There’d been only a few people present (how quaint!) Potter’s useless Auror partner, the hated Granger, the lovely Greengrass girl he’d so wanted to bite that night the Death Eaters infiltrated Hogwarts. And of course the boy. Draco Malfoy’s son.

Just the memory of the boy’s tender flesh, tinged pink by the heat from the fire and the many candles’ flickering flames, made Greyback salivate until ropes of drool hung from his muzzle as he ran.

He would Turn one last child. A memento to his power. And with that one single bite, he’d destroy Potter too. Potter, the Boy Who’d Ruined Everything, would never live to be happy with his dirty little secret hidden away. Potter would be hated and hunted just as Potter had hated and hunted him. A delicious irony and a fitting legacy. 

The Manor’s wards kept out humans but, foolishly, not Werewolves. Potter had probably altered them so he could come and go freely. And why would Draco Malfoy be suspicious? He was clearly blinded by desire. Potter loved him. Potter would never hurt him.

Or his son.

Greyback laughed when he heard the light footsteps coming to the door. Children always came when he called to them. They heard him whisper their names in their sleep, and they came to him, welcomed him. Trusting. Sweet as syrup.

Draco Malfoy’s son was in his pyjamas and rubbing his eyes when he opened the door. His hair, so like his hated father’s, glowed in the moonlight. He cocked his head with a questioning look . . .

And Greyback lunged. The boy didn’t have a chance.

Take that, Potter.

 

_Evening, February 7, 2012_

 

It was the stuff of nightmares.

The skinned wolf lay on its side, naked and pink like a mutant foetus torn from its birth sac. Its teeth were no longer covered by lips, and its tongue lulled out between jaws that’d been stripped to the bone.

There was blood everywhere. One eye remained in its socket. The other had fallen out. Draco had flung it into the trees before turning aside and vomiting in the snow.

He hung the dark pelt from a branch and cast spells to clean and dry it. The sun was low in the sky, and he was exhausted.

Astoria was back at the Manor with Scorpius. The two of them hadn’t left their son alone for a minute over the past month. It was as though he was a little boy again, reaching for their hands for comfort. The Healers had done all they could for the time being. They would work on the scarring and install the glass eyes later, but for now they’d stopped the bleeding and healed the wounds as best they could. They’d bandaged his face to spare his parents the sight of empty eye sockets.

“It’s so dark,” Scorpius sometimes whimpered, clutching the stuffed unicorn he’d relegated to the closet over his first Christmas hols when he’d declared himself too old for toys. Astoria covered her mouth to keep him from hearing her sobs. Draco stroked his soft hair, trying desperately to soothe him.

“Don’t leave me,” Scorpius had said, and Draco had tried to forget Harry’s voice saying those exact same words just a few months before.

_Why on earth do you think I would?_

He’d been propped on his elbow, looking down into Harry’s face, pale and beautiful in the moonlight and tucked a lock of black sweat-damp hair behind Harry’s ear. 

_I don’t know,_ Harry had said. _Just don’t, whatever happens, okay? Don’t abandon me._

It’d sounded like the Dark Lord all over again, and Draco had felt a stab of fear.

 _You’re not going to tell me, are you,_ he’d said. It hadn’t been a question, just a statement of what he knew to be fact.

 _You know I would if I could._ Harry had turned his face into Draco’s hand and kissed his palm.

_I hate your fucking job . . ._

Harry had reached up and touched Draco’s lips with his fingertips. _I know,_ he’d said. _After this . . . after this, I’ll quit. I promise._

Draco had pulled away and sat up, running his fingers through his hair and gazing out of the window at the waning autumn moon.

 _Great,_ he’d said. _I’ll be the one to deprive the wizarding world of its hero; I’m sure that’ll make me popular._

 _It’s time they found a new hero,_ Harry had said. He’d reached up and pulled Draco back down onto the bed beside him. _Anyone who’s ever read_ The Prophet _knows that all I’ve ever really wanted is to get married and live quietly without madmen and Dark creatures stalking me all the time._ There’d been an uncertain but hopeful look in his eyes.

Draco’s pulse had sped up, but he’d adopted an expression of supreme scepticism.

 _What are you saying, Potter?_ he’d asked.

 _What I’m saying,_ Harry had said quietly, _is please marry me._

Draco had wanted to leap out of bed and dance around like a Seeker who’d just caught the Snitch, but all he’d done was arch an eyebrow.

_No you’re not._

Harry had kissed him.

_Yes, I am._

_No, you’re not._

_Yes, I am._

_No, you’re not . . . God, we sound like we’re eleven._

He’d been grinning and his chest felt tight and Harry had looked at him expectantly and there’d been only one reasonable answer and it was _yes_!

 

Draco could have vanished the carcass, but he didn’t. The crows had been gathering in the trees all afternoon. They’d appreciate the meal.

He shrank the pelt and put it in his pocket. The gamekeeper would know how to tan the hide, and then he’d have a lovely rug to curl his toes in while he sat in the chair before the fireplace in his study. He could already see the light from the flames making the dark hair shine . . .

. . . and he wouldn’t remember Harry making love to him before that very same fireplace, or how Harry’s eyes had pleaded, helpless with desire, or how his hair, dark and clinging with sweat, had shone in the dancing flames.

 

_Just after the setting of the full moon, January 10, 2012_

 

Harry ran blindly through the trees, intent on finding the place where he’d buried his clothes and his wand. He kept his mind on the search, ignoring the branches that whipped his naked body and the snow that crunched beneath his bare feet, making them bleed, leaving behind bloody footprints. He wouldn’t let himself think about anything else. Not yet.

He wouldn’t think about following Greyback to the Manor, suddenly aware of what Greyback planned to do, or leaping through the French doors, sending bright shards of glass falling on the carpet like pieces of the moon. He wouldn’t think about finding Greyback pinning Scorpius to the floor or the way Scorpius had screamed for his Dad. He wouldn’t think about Greyback’s vicious laugh when he saw Harry crouching, snarling, ready to spring, or about the sound of jaws crushing bone. He wouldn’t think about Greyback escaping and Scorpius in shock, his face unrecognisable. And he especially wouldn’t think about the agony of the Transformation, the sharp smell of human blood, and, worst of all, Draco’s expression when he came running down the stairs.

Later, he’d found Greyback’s body and Banished it to the Aurors’ headquarters wandlessly, the magic singing in his veins and tasting like rage. But there’d been no sense of victory, even after more than a year of full moons. Even though Harry had literally sold his soul for that very moment.

Draco had Petrified him halfway through his Transformation. He’d been unable to move, but that hadn’t stopped his body from changing from a Werewolf into a man again. For too long he’d only been able to lie there in agony, watching Draco plead and wail over his son. But then he’d been able to break the spell that held him and run.

Even though the wisest wizards said there wasn’t a cure to stop a newly bitten child from Turning and there’d never be one, Harry knew he would find it. And if he wasn’t able to find it, then he’d will it into existence. He’d beaten the odds a dozen times, and he’d do so again. He knew he’d find something – or someone – to heal Scorpius and prevent him from becoming a Werewolf. He didn’t know how or how far and wide he’d have to search, but he knew that even if he had to sift through every grain of sand in every dessert, he’d do it. He’d stop at nothing. He had no illusions that he would ever get Draco back, but he thought maybe he could give Draco back his son.

Finally, he found the hole where he’d hidden his things, dressed, and slipped his wedding band on his finger. He was sure Draco would destroy or vanish his, but Harry never would. 

It was all he had left.

 

_Late afternoon, February 8, 2012_

 

Draco returned the next afternoon. There was nothing left but bones and blood-soaked snow. The crows had been efficient.

The air smelled of snow – the icy kind that comes down like tiny pins and leaves your face stinging and raw. He leaned his back against a tree and looked up at the sky. The clouds were low and caught like bits of cotton in the branches. Unconsciously, he twisted the wedding band on his finger. It was a habit he’d developed since their Solstice wedding. Why he hadn’t taken it off, he didn’t know. He would someday. He knew he would, but not yet. Not just yet.

He closed his eyes. He was tired in a way that made him doubt he’d ever feel awake and alive again.

He’d directed the house-elves to place the pelt in his study in front of the fireplace. It would be there when he returned. He wondered if he had the strength yet to look at it, to run his fingers through the shiny black hair . . .

He was on his knees before he even realised he’d fallen. The bloody snow was cold and wet, and he couldn’t breathe. He tore off his scarf and ripped the top button off his coat’s collar in an effort to inhale.

He’d spent the previous night sitting with Scorpius so as to give Astoria some small respite and hopefully some sleep. Scorpius, himself, couldn’t sleep – at least not soundly. Draco had read to him for hours – children’s books at Scorpius’s request. At times he’d made sounds that Draco thought could’ve been tears, but how do you cry if you have no eyes?

He struggled to his feet again. He was determined to stay strong. He had to be there for his family – the family he’d so shamefully discarded for a monstrous farce of a marriage.

He’d scoured the ancient books of law over the past month when he couldn’t sleep. Marriages between wizards and witches who’d been tricked into matrimony were null and void. And even more on point, marriages between humans and Dark creatures were nothing but satanic parodies of the holy institution. He had not only the right but the sacred obligation to his ancestral heritage to expunge any record of his and the creature’s bond.

And he would. 

But not just yet, at least not until he could take off his wedding band.

 

_April 4, 2012_

 

The parcel arrived just two days before the first full moon after the spring Equinox.

It contained a potion in a dark brown bottle with Runes on the label. Draco had to look them up in one of the oldest books in the library whose pages had crumbled when he turned them.

 _Give to the child to drink just before the first full moon after the most recent Equinox following the Werewolf’s bite_ the label read.

The potion clearly wasn’t legal, and Draco wondered who could’ve found it and had the influence to get it past customs. One of the many renowned healers they’d consulted perhaps? Some of them had done pretty “experimental” work, and Draco wouldn’t be surprised if much of it was illegal. In their search for a means to prevent Scorpius from Turning, they’d visited some countries whose health and safety laws were lax at best.

Astoria was against giving the potion to Scorpius, but the full moon was only hours away, and they’d run out of options. Finally, she’d tearfully agreed. 

As with all his liquids, Draco had to hold the bottle against Scorpius’s lips and tip it slowly. Scorpius had the use of his hands, but his face was still completely bandaged. Someone had to help him eat and drink – just one of the dozens of daily humiliations his son had to endure. Draco tipped the bottle as slowly as he could, but his hand shook all the same – not only out of fear of what the strange potion might do, but also in anticipation and a fierce undying hope.

Scorpius sputtered and protested, but Draco persisted, and at last the bottle was empty of its foul smelling contents. He gave Scorpius a Chocolate Frog to take away the taste.

“Don’t say anything to him,” he whispered to Astoria in the hallway. “I don’t want to raise his hopes for nothing. If he asks, tell him it was an anti-scarring potion.”

Astoria nodded. She took his hand and squeezed it.

“You haven’t slept properly in days,” she said. “Take the night off. I’ll stay with him.”

Despite his concerns about the potion’s effects, Draco agreed. Even his bones felt tired. He’d be no good when the full moon came if he didn’t get some rest.

Once in his room, he took off his clothes and collapsed on the bed. The night was unseasonably warm. He opened the windows and covered himself with a thin sheet. Mercifully, he fell asleep almost immediately. He was _that_ exhausted.

Sometime around midnight, he drifted toward wakefulness when he felt hands touching him. Careful hands. Masculine hands. 

_Ssshhhh_ , the breeze whispered, swaying the gauzy curtains. Moonlight filled the room.

“Harry,” he murmured. 

An owl called, and a wolf howled in the forest. The hands slid down his chest and cupped his hardening cock. He sighed gratefully and spread his legs to give the hands greater access. His balls ached. It’d been so long since his last orgasm.

He heard himself say _My, what big hands you have._

 _The better to touch you with,_ came the answer.

He was close before he even knew it, and then there was a warm mouth sucking him. He started thrusting his hips as his orgasm began with tinglings in his toes and scalp, moving towards one another to meet in his gut. He moaned, lost in sensation and the imminence of a longed for release. He reached down to bury his fingers in thick sleek hair.

 _My, what big teeth you have,_ he said.

 _The better to eat you with_ came the answer, and he was jolted awake by sudden terror at the same moment he fell over the edge of his climax. The sound he made was too close to a scream.

He collapsed back against his pillows, sweating and shaking, every nerve in his body painfully awake. The breeze from the windows chilled him. He reached for his wand and closed them with a bang.

The room fell silent and the curtains drifted back into place. His heart still pounding, he pulled up the sheet and turned onto his side. The moon must’ve emerged from behind a cloud because suddenly it was blindingly bright.

In its light, Draco saw the black hair on the pillow next to his.

 

_April thru November, 2012_

 

The first full moon after the Equinox came and went, and Scorpius didn’t Turn.

By the end of the summer, his face was nearly healed and his glass eyes were working almost as well as his real ones had. There was no question he’d return to Hogwarts – Draco was sure that he and Astoria would’ve had a mutiny on their hands if they refused. He watched with a tight throat as Scorpius’s numerous friends surrounded him at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters chattering away about how now that he was back, he could try out for the Quidditch team. Just before boarding the train, Scorpius turned and waved at him, his smile wide and brilliant despite the scars. Draco waved back, and Astoria blew him a kiss.

Draco wished the sender of the potion would make himself known. He wanted to thank him for saving his son from a fate worse than death. Scorpius would never have been able to return to Hogwarts if he’d been Turned. He’d have been forced to live a life of shame and exile, hidden away at the Manor, with no one but his parents for company. Draco would’ve had to place curtains over all of his ancestors’ portraits, especially his grandfather’s, because they never would’ve given Scorpius a moment’s peace. They would’ve said such horrible things that Scorpius would’ve been driven mad with self-loathing. They’d probably go even so far as to encourage Scorpius to kill himself and rid the world of his corrupted impure blood.

The probability had broken Draco’s heart. There was no reward too great to pay to the person who’d pulled them away from the brink of despair. If only he or she would send an Owl, Draco would give them anything their heart desired.

But all his gratitude could not erase the hatred he still felt towards Harry. Malfoys did not forget betrayals, and Harry’s had been the worst imaginable.

When the reporters sought him out, he told them everything. About his farce of a marriage. About Harry’s true nature. About how he’d almost killed Scorpius. The papers ate it up, but Draco never read the articles. They contained photographs of him and Harry together. He couldn’t bear to look at them. 

The only thing he never mentioned was that he, himself, had hunted Harry down and killed him. That secret was his and his alone.

 

_November 20, 2012_

 

Fergus’s first Owl arrived after the publication of Draco’s article speculating that Harry might have been in league with Greyback while Voldemort was still alive. He demanded a meeting, and at first Draco refused. There was nothing Fergus could say that would get him to be quiet. There was no threat he could make that would silence Draco’s voice. But after the hundredth Owl (literally), Draco finally gave in and invited Fergus to the Manor for a drink. In his study. In front of his ancient fireplace.

If Fergus noticed the wolf pelt, he didn’t say so. He merely accepted Draco’s invitation to sit and make himself comfortable. Draco poured them both glasses of whisky, which they sipped in a horrible awkward silence broken only by the sound of rain on the windows and the fire’s crackling flames.

“I thought you should know,” Fergus said at last, “that Fenrir Greyback is dead.”

Draco raised an eyebrow and took a sip of whisky. “I knew that already,” he said. “He died along with Voldemort. Aurors hunted him down and killed him. The press couldn’t talk of anything else for weeks; the news was almost as big as Voldemort’s defeat.”

Fergus looked away and shook his head.

“It was a lie,” he said.

Draco felt his blood freeze despite the blazing fire. 

“No, _you’re_ lying,” he said. “Why would the Ministry say Greyback was dead if he wasn’t?”

Fergus looked at him. His eyes were cold. 

“Because he’d disappeared, and even the best Aurors couldn’t find him. Can you imagine the panic that news would’ve set off and what it would’ve meant with the War so fresh in everyone’s memory? Werewolves would’ve been hunted down and slaughtered indiscriminately . . .”

“Good,” Draco said fiercely. “They’re monsters. They don’t deserve to live. They shouldn’t even be given the right to die quickly and painlessly. My grandfather was an expert on hunting Werewolves. He used to advocate for public flaying and disembowelment, and I’m inclined to agree with him.”

Fergus drained his glass and looked at him.

“You’re son was almost Turned,” he said flatly. “Would you have wanted him to be hunted and killed and skinned to be made into someone’s rug?” He nodded at the pelt.

For some reason, Draco had never thought of it that way; there’d been too many other things on his mind. He fell into a furious silence.

“Harry Turned himself,” Fergus said. “To catch Greyback. We’d tried everything else. Nothing worked. Nobody knew except him and me.”

Draco couldn’t conceal his anger.

“Clearly, I hadn’t been on the list of people who had the right to know,” he said, his hands clutching the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white.

Fergus had the decency to look ashamed. “That was Harry’s decision,” he mumbled. “I think . . . I think he just wanted to try to have a normal life, to not let Greyback define his future. He loved you deeply . . .”

“Harry nearly killed _my son_ ,” Draco said, his voice quavering. “He nearly Turned him!”

Fergus gazed into the glass he was holding on his knee as though it was an oracle. There was another long awkward silence.

“No, he didn’t,” Fergus finally said. “Greyback did.”

Draco started to shake his head and didn’t stop. “No, no no,” he said, over and over. “I saw what I saw. I saw _Harry_ , not Greyback. I know what they both look like. After all, I had to live with Greyback under this very roof before I joined the Order.”

“You’re in denial,” Fergus said unkindly. “Because if you’re wrong, you hate Harry for no reason.”

He again nodded at the pelt. Draco paled despite knowing Fergus couldn’t possibly know it once belonged to Harry. 

“I saw what I saw,” he said firmly.

“What you saw,” Fergus said, “was Harry trying to save your son. He followed Greyback here. He knew what Greyback planned to do. He tried to get here in time . . .”

Draco stood, his fists clenched. “You are _lying_ , he said. “Get out of my house. I saw what I saw. I saw Harry crouched over Scorpius, his teeth were bloody . . .”

Fergus slammed his glass down on the coffee table so hard that it shattered. “His teeth were bloody, you idiot, because he’d just attacked Greyback!” He rose from his chair menacingly.

They stood glaring at each other, their chests heaving and their wand hands ready. “Get out of my house,” Draco said again, his voice low and dangerous. “Get out before I have to throw you out.”

“Fine,” Fergus said. “I’ll go, but I’ll leave you with this.”

He threw a piece of folded parchment on the desk.

“If I see one more quote from you in the papers,” he said, his voice equally as low and dangerous, “I will come here again and it won’t be for a whisky and a fireside chat.”

Draco was about to draw his wand and demand a duel, but Fergus was already walking out into the hall, heading for the Floo.

“Happy reading,” he said without looking back.

 

Draco didn’t return to his study after Fergus left. He was too angry and shaken. Instead, he walked outside and kept walking until he came to the huge beech by the koi pond. All of its leaves had fallen in a storm a couple of days ago, and the groundskeeper hadn’t yet had time to tidy things up. The wind was cold, and Draco pulled his cloak tighter around him. His shoes were soaked from walking through the wet grass.

Harry used to go to the pond on the day before the full moon and sit beneath the beech for hours. Draco would watch him from the window. From that distance, he’d only been able to see the colour of Harry’s shirt and the occasional glint of sunlight off his glasses. He’d always wondered what drew Harry to this place. It was nothing special.

He’d learned why later, of course, long after it was too late. Harry needed to prepare himself for his Transformation. If only Draco had known . . .

He leaned against the beech and closed his eyes. There were a lot of things he hadn’t known about Harry. Like why Harry had felt claustrophobic in lifts and been surprisingly good at chess. Or why tears had sometimes filled his eyes when he came.

It was dark by the time Draco returned to the Manor. He turned down Astoria’s invitation to dine with her and went straight to his study. He picked up the parchment and sat down before the fireplace. It stayed resting in his lap for an hour before he finally felt calm and steady enough to unfold it. He dreaded what he might learn. 

_Fergus,_

_By the time you read this, Greyback will be dead, and I will be gone. If you haven’t already, you’ll find his body in the holding cell. It should be easier now to find and capture the members of his Pack. I hope no one else has to die – human or Werewolf. I guess you could say I feel a sort of kinship with them now, whether I want to or not. Make sure they’re treated humanely. Talk to Hermione. She’s been working on Werewolves’ rights for years. You’ll find her sympathetic. And you can tell her about me._

_Greyback may have killed Scorpius Malfoy tonight. I couldn’t stay long enough to find out, but I know Draco thinks it was me. Greyback targeted his son because he knew it would destroy both of us in one final stroke. He succeeded._

_Please tell Draco I’m dead. Maybe it’ll bring him some peace. I know he’ll never forgive me for not telling him. I don’t think he ever would’ve become my boyfriend, let alone my husband, if he’d known. I was selfish. I wanted him too much. I couldn’t bear the thought of him looking at me with the same loathing and disgust he feels towards Werewolves. I was a coward. Ask him to forgive me some day if he can._

_I have to go away – far away, although I don’t know where yet. I can’t think that far ahead right now. Tonight ruined everything. Nothing can ever go back to what it was. That means us too, Gus. It’s been a pleasure and an honour to be your partner. I hope your next one won’t be such a nutter. Keep fighting the good fight._

_Harry_

Draco cast a revealing spell on the letter. Harry couldn’t have written it. But even when the spell confirmed he had, Draco cast another and another and another, whispering them at first and then shouting them until his throat hurt and his voice failed him.

Dawn was breaking when the letter’s words finally sank into his heart, but all he could do for a long time was remember the sound of crows and the sight of blood-soaked snow. Everything else was lost in a thick fog that could only be shock.

Harry hadn’t bitten Scorpius.

The words rattled around in Draco’s skull like pebbles in an empty potion bottle.

Harry hadn’t done it. Harry had been trying to save him.

Draco slid slowly off the chair and onto his knees. The letter fell to the floor. He began crawling toward the fireplace as blindly and instinctively as an injured animal crawls towards its den.

The pelt was warm when he lay down on it. Its thick dark hair had soaked up the heat from the fire. Despite having been in his study for months, it still smelled of winter moonlight. Draco turned his face into it and stayed that way even though the angle of his head made it hard to breathe.

Astoria didn’t try to move him or even ask what he was doing when she found him. She merely fetched a blanket and draped it over him. He thought she might’ve also asked if he wanted a drink of water but gathered from the fact that she hadn’t brought one that he’d said no.

The pelt was so soft, so warm, and he was so tired. Was it a dream when he felt it move as though it still covered muscle and bone? He buried his fingers in its dark hair. Was he going to live through this day? What about the next one? And the one after that?

He’d cursed Harry and left him to die a slow agonising death alone.

“Baby,” Astoria said, kneeling beside him and brushing the lank hair away from his face. She’d never called him “baby” before. 

He’d told her to read the letter.

“You didn’t know,” she said softly. “How could you? You – and all the rest of us – thought Greyback was dead, and Harry never told you . . .”

Draco shook his head. He wasn’t ready to hear Harry’s name. He doubted he’d ever be.

“Draco,” she said gently. “It’s been three days. You haven’t eaten or bathed.”

He hadn’t even cried although he longed to.

“I should have cast _Avada Kedavra_ ,” he croaked.

“His organs were damaged. He couldn’t have lived for long.”

Draco buried his face in the silky pelt again. “A minute would’ve been too long,” he said, his voice muffled.

“He understood,” Astoria said, taking his hand. “He knew he was taking a risk by not telling you . . .”

“The risk I might leave him, not the risk I might hunt him down and slaughter him in cold blood for a crime he didn’t commit!”

“Sweetheart, you didn’t know.”

She’d never called him “sweetheart” before either. He must look worse than dreadful. He tried to care, but he couldn’t.

“You have a son,” she said after awhile. “Don’t forget that.”

Draco pulled his hand out of hers and closed it into a fist, clutching the pelt’s thick hair in his fingers.

“He’s been asking after you. He’s wondering where your daily Owls are. You did what you did because you love him.”

“I did what I did out of revenge,” he said. “Don’t try to convince me that I had noble intentions.”

Astoria placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “He knew what it was like to be ruled by desire for vengeance. He would forgive you.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tears to spill because maybe then he could get up and go on living.

“I know,” he whispered. “But that only makes everything worse.”

 

_January 1, 2013_

 

Hermione read the letter, but she had to read it again before its contents sunk in.

Someone had donated a half million Galleons to her Werewolf Relief Foundation. 

That one gift alone quadrupled the existing funds. After Draco Malfoy’s relentless press assault against her foundation and Werewolves in general, the already meagre donations had dried up completely. The public was clamouring for stricter measures, and there was even a group that was lobbying for their extinction. People had mocked her when she’d called it genocide. Her desk was buried in hate mail.

So who was this anonymous benefactor?

Could it be Harry?

Despite the rumour that he was dead, she still believed he was out there somewhere. She’d know in her bones if Harry was dead – she was sure she would. He was still alive and probably not even that far away. He wouldn’t be able to leave Malfoy completely, although whether he was in a wolf or human form, she couldn’t guess. Some of the most powerful Werewolves could choose, and she was sure Harry had the necessary strength and ability. She could imagine grief driving him to leave behind his human form forever.

Sometimes she thought she saw paw prints in her garden too large to be a dog’s. But then again, it was known to the free Werewolves that she was a friend. It could be any of them, but she liked to believe they were Harry’s all the same. She liked the idea that he might be watching over her.

He probably watched over Malfoy too even though the bastard didn’t deserve it.

 

_November 2012 thru April 2013_

 

Everything had had to change.

There was no way Draco could continue living at the Manor. There were too many memories of Harry. Nearly every room reminded him of something. Harry laughing at Scorpius’s impressions of his teachers in the drawing room. Harry falling asleep in the sunroom with his arm covering his eyes and a newspaper open on his lap. Harry cooking in the kitchen with the house-elves much to their confusion and chagrin. Harry practising Transformations in the dining room, changing teacups into double-ended newts or whatever else caught his fancy. Harry sitting on the patio, polishing his broom or sitting on the arm of one of Draco’s expensive leather chair splashing equally expensive scotch as he talked animatedly about this or that. Then there was the bedroom. Draco was certain he could never bed another man in that room, if, indeed, he could ever bed another man anywhere.

And then, of course, there was his grandfather’s trophy room.

He’d had to escape.

Just before the Winter Solstice – his and Harry’s first wedding anniversary – he bought an unpretentious country house near Hogsmeade so he could spend time with Scorpius on the weekends.

Astoria sometimes stayed with him, but she had a social life in London and, he suspected, a lover. He didn’t begrudge her her happiness. After all, she hadn’t loved someone and then brutally murdered him.

Other than spending time with his son, the only thing that gave Draco any sense of pleasure and satisfaction was writing cheques to Granger’s foundation.

He was alone nearly all of the time, and sometimes he thought he was going mad when he caught the glint of moonlight on black hair near the hedge or thought he heard the howl of a wolf. Once, he’d run out barefoot into the pasture in nothing but a pair of trousers hastily pulled on when he’d seen what he’d thought was a large animal running towards the forest. When he’d finally come to a stop, he knew he was crazy because sane people didn’t run after Werewolves in the middle of a rainy night under a full moon.

He began leaving raw steaks in the back garden. Usually, he’d find them untouched the next morning, but sometimes they’d be gone, and there’d be large paw prints in the mud. On those mornings, he’d feel so much relief that he’d run indoors to fire call Astoria. But then he’d see the pelt in front of the hearth and remember that any wolf that might be visiting him could not be Harry.

All the same, he took to sitting at his bedroom window all night, even when it was cloudy or there was no moon. Even when all he could see was his own reflection in the glass.

When he did sleep, it was during the day. He sprawled naked on the warmth of the wolf pelt, his fingers clutching the sleek dark hair. He usually dreamed of blood and crows, but sometimes he dreamed that Harry was there with him, kissing him, touching him, holding him. It was when he woke from those dreams that he thought seriously of killing himself.

Then he’d remember Scorpius.

 

_Morning, April 2, 2013_

 

Hermione laughed out loud when she saw April’s cheque. She’d seen the indentation of words that must’ve been written on the cheque immediately preceding hers and held hers up to the light. _To Scorpius,_ it read, and then at the bottom, _your loving father_.

Suddenly, the abrupt end of Malfoy’s stupid comments to the press made sense. He was giving away his fortune to a foundation supporting Werewolves’ rights.

The only question was why.

“Your Draco is a mysterious man,” Hermione said to the black wolf lying in front of the fireplace. He got up and yawned hugely, his fangs gleaming in the morning light. He trotted over to sniff at the cheque Hermione held out.

“You smell him, don’t you?” she said.

The wolf looked up at her face and blinked his green eyes.

“Harry,” she said gently, reaching out to scratch the wolf’s ear. “Are you ever going to show yourself?”

Actually, she wasn’t sure if the wolf was, in fact, Harry. Despite its formidable size, she wasn’t even entirely sure if it was a Werewolf. Usually the Werewolves that sought her out came to her in their human forms. The black wolf with the green eyes remained a wolf.

He came and went without any obvious pattern or reason. Sometimes he was gone for days, and then he’d return, scratching at her door to be let in.

“If I go to visit Draco this afternoon, will you come with me?” she asked.

The wolf just stared at her.

“What are you afraid of, Harry? He won’t know it’s you. I think he believes the rumour that you’re dead.”

The wolf sniffed at the cheque again.

“If he’s sending me this much money every month, then he can’t still call for Werewolves to be . . . let’s see . . .” she rummaged around in a desk drawer and pulled out a newspaper article “. . . systemically exterminated and their pelts auctioned off to provide some small recompense to the parents who lost their children to their savagery.”

The wolf turned away and walked back to the fireplace, his tail down and his head drooping. He lay down and turned his face toward the dwindling fire.

She stood up and went to him, kneeling down and stroking his flank. “Harry,” she said softly. “Come with me. Or at least think about it. You need to get on with your life – either as a wolf or a human. If you’re going to stay a wolf, then you need to join a pack and find a mate . . .”

The wolf rose to his feet and howled mournfully.

“. . . or, if you’re going to return to being human, you need to find people who, unlike Draco, understand and accept you. And sadly that won’t be here. Britain will never accept Werewolves unless they’re branded and locked in cages and put on a shortlist to be executed. Places like Romania and Russia are different. You’d be safe there as long as you prevented yourself from killing people or livestock. But I know you can do that, Harry. I _know_ you can. If you want, I can put you in touch with people I’ve met and trust.”

The wolf padded to the door and scratched to get out.

Hermione regarded him sadly. “You have to leave him,” she said. “No matter how much money he gives me, he’ll never be able to atone for slandering you so hatefully. Especially seeing what you’d been to each other. And if he thought about it for five minutes, he’d realise that all that time he’d been your lover, you were a Werewolf, and _nothing happened_. You still loved him like a man and would never have hurt him – or his son. You made sure of it. Fergus told me.”

The wolf scratched at the door, and Hermione sighed.

“Okay,” she said. “But I’m still going to go see him later – with or without you, although I hope it’s with you. At least think about it. I’ll be leaving on the Knight Bus right around noon.”

She opened the door, and the wolf shot out, disappearing through a hole in the hedge.

* * * *

Draco was furious when he answered a knock on the door and opened it to find Granger on his doorstep. She should’ve at least had the decency to Owl first. What was it with Muggle-borns?

“Just a moment,” he said tersely. “Wait here. I didn’t know anyone was coming for a visit, and I need to tidy up.”

He ran into the living room, Banished the wolf pelt to the study, and locked the door.

When he returned to the front door, he saw Granger admiring the cherry blossoms . . . and a glint of shining dark hair through the hedge.

He reached for the doorknob intending to slam the door shut if she’d had the audacity to bring a Werewolf. He may be supporting her foundation to free them out of penance for what he’d done to Harry, but that didn’t mean he liked the creatures. As far as he was still concerned, they were savage brutes. Maybe he didn’t want them exterminated anymore, but he’d still love to see them rounded up and shipped to Siberia.

Granger looked away from the blossom she’d been smelling.

“These are lovely . . .”

Suddenly a huge black wolf appeared on the path behind her. 

He drew his wand and Petrified it. Granger cried out and grabbed his wrist.

“What are you doing? I thought you didn’t hate them anymore!” she cried.

He felt his face flush with rage.

“How _dare_ you bring that thing to my house?” he shouted. “For that matter, how dare you come to my house at all? I was an anonymous donor for a reason!”

Granger ran to the wolf and cradled its head.

“As soon as he frees you, you’re going to run, aren’t you?” she said to it. “Promise me you won’t. Promise me you’ll stay. I’ll never ask you to do anything like this again.”

She stood, drew her wand and pointed it at Draco.

“Release him,” she said. “He’s doesn’t have a wand. He’s harmless . . .”

He looked at her in astonishment and laughed.

“ _Harmless_?” he said incredulously. “Those things are merciless killers! I should know!”

Her face turned pink with outrage.

“Yes, you _should_ know,” she sputtered, tripping over her words in her haste to get them out. “You _lived_ with a Werewolf for nearly a year. You _loved_ him. You even _married_ him! There are very few others who’ve ever been able to get closer to a Werewolf than you did! Was that what Harry was? A ‘merciless killer’? Now release him!”

Draco felt an all-too-familiar grief fill his heart. He ended the spell, and the wolf staggered to its feet.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded with it. She turned again to Draco. “Can we come inside?”

He could only stare at her. “You’ve got to be joking,” he said. “If I can’t stand to have a Werewolf in my garden, then how do you think I feel about having it in my home?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, the wolf trotted toward them. Draco leapt aside, a Stunning spell on his tongue, but Granger grabbed his wrist again. The wolf slipped past them and went through the open door.

“He won’t hurt you,” Granger said as Draco stood frozen, staring after it. “Trust me.”

He swallowed his fear as much as he could and led her inside. The wolf was already lying in front of the fireplace in the living room. Draco suddenly felt faint when he realised it must be able to smell the pelt that’d been there only minutes before.

He gestured for Granger to take a seat and conjured a tray of teacups and sandwiches with a shaky wand. The cover of the teapot rattled as he tried to pour her tea. It slopped onto the front of her jumper when he Levitated her teacup over to her, but she politely didn’t mention it. He sat in the chair next to hers, his body rigid, prepared to flee at any sign of aggression from the wolf.

“Why are you doing it?” Granger asked after a moment.

“Doing what?” he squeaked and then coughed to clear his throat.

“Giving money to my foundation.”

“No reason,” he said, taking a sip of tea but only managing to spill it on his shirt. Even though he was talking to her, he hadn’t looked away from the wolf.

“Right,” she said.

He tried to shrug in a poor approximation of nonchalance. “Had a change of heart,” he said.

“Because of all the lies you’d been telling about Harry?”

He closed his eyes and then took a deep breath before opening them again. 

“Yes,” he said. “I didn’t know . . . I didn’t know until I was told that Harry . . . that Harry wasn’t the one who bit Scorpius.”

“So you’re doing it out of guilt,” she said.

He turned his face away. “You could say that,” he mumbled.

They sat in silence drinking their tea. The wolf sighed and rested its head on its forepaws. It looked comfortable but it was still staring at Draco with its green eyes.

Granger followed the direction of Draco’s gaze.

“I think that’s Harry,” she whispered. “He’s been visiting me now and then for months. He won’t let on, and I’ve never seen him in human form, but Harry’s my best friend. I can tell it’s him.”

Draco felt a stab of pain so sharp that he nearly dropped his teacup. For a second he thought Granger had hexed him. But then he recognised it – it was the same pain he felt when he woke from a dream of Harry’s kiss.

“Can’t be,” he gasped. 

Granger looked at him with a frown. “Why not?”

“Because . . .” He stopped. How could he tell her that he’d hunted down and slaughtered her best friend? Up until this moment, only Astoria knew for sure. He knew there were rumours, but he’d never confirmed them. He couldn’t bear to. Even when he still hated Harry, the savagery of his actions was too terrible to confess – too like the Werewolves he demonised. He could barely admit to himself what he’d done.

He shook his head. He couldn’t tell her. “That’s not Harry,” was all he could manage to say.

He’d take the secret of Harry’s death to his grave. Not even Granger’s encouraging hand on his shoulder could dissuade him.

But then the wolf rose to its feet. It padded to the study door and began scratching at it.

Draco felt his stomach turn over and was almost sick with the realisation of what was about to happen.

When neither he nor Granger moved, the wolf scratched harder and whined. It turned its head and stared directly into Draco’s eyes.

Granger went to it and knelt beside it. It whined again, only louder.

“What’s going on?” she asked it, stroking its head.

It howled suddenly, and both Draco and Granger jumped – Granger even let out a little shriek and scrambled away from it. Draco fumbled for his wand, but the wolf bared its fangs, and he froze.

Granger turned to look at him.

“What’s behind that door?” she asked.

Draco could only swallow.

“My study,” he said after a moment, his voice shaking.

“Why does Harry want to go in there?”

“That thing is _not_ Harry,” he said. “Stop saying it is.”

She petted the wolf and whispered something in its ear. Draco wanted to hex them both. She stood and whistled.

“Come on, Harry,” she said. “This isn’t going well. I don’t want you to get even more hurt than you already are. I’ll only be a moment more. Wait for me outside . . .”

But the creature didn’t listen to her. Instead it backed up and then threw itself against the study door with all its weight. Despite being sturdy, the door didn’t stand a chance. Its wood splintered, and the wolf tore at its remnants with its claws.

Draco thought he’d have a heart attack when the wolf finally broke through and returned dragging the pelt.

Granger clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry.

“What _is_ that?” she cried. “Please _please_ tell me it’s not a Werewolf pelt!”

Draco couldn’t speak. He could barely even breathe.

“It is, isn’t it?” she said, choking on tears. “You killed one!”

The wolf stared at him. He couldn’t bear its accusing gaze.

“It belonged to Harry,” he whispered almost inaudibly. “I killed him.”

Granger froze and then began shaking her head.

“No you didn’t,” she said. “That’s Harry.”

She pointed at the wolf.

Draco was suddenly blindingly furious. “It _is_ Harry!” he shouted, pointing at pelt. “I hunted him down and killed him. And then I skinned him and left his carcass for the carrion crows!”

Granger stared at him with bewildered incomprehension.

“But . . .” she stammered. “But you knew it wasn’t Harry that bit your son . . .”

“Not then!” Draco raged at her. “I didn’t learn that until after I’d killed him! I hit him with a curse that damages the internal organs but doesn’t rend flesh, and do you want to know why? Because I wanted his pelt to be whole and flawless when I put my feet on it while I sipped my scotch, that’s why!”

She was still staring at him, but now there were tears in her eyes.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s not true. _That’s_ Harry.” She pointed at the wolf.

Draco felt the rage leave him just as quickly as it’d come.

“That’s not Harry,” he said wearily and dropped into his chair. “I’m sorry.”

Granger put her face in her hands and began to cry.

He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He only realised the wolf had approached him when he felt the intense animal heat radiating off its body. His eyes flew open, and terror seized him by the throat.

 _It’s going to kill me,_ he thought. _And I deserve it._

But the wolf merely stood still, staring up at him with its green eyes. 

“I’m so sorry,” Draco told it, although he didn’t know why.

After a long time, Granger stopped crying and sat looking stunned and broken as she stared into the fire.

“Can I at least have it?” she asked hoarsely.

“Have what?” he asked.

“The pelt,” she said. “I want to give Harry a proper burial.”

He panicked. He couldn’t be separated from it. He thought he might die if he was.

“No,” he cried. “No! I’ll stun you if you touch it!”

He drew his wand and pointed it at her.

“It’s all I have left of him,” he pleaded. “Please don’t take it.”

To his surprise, she looked at him with weary sympathy.

“Okay,” she conceded with a sigh. “I won’t take it from you, but please let me borrow it. At least to show his friends. They think Harry’s still alive. They need to have that hope put to rest. I’ll return it by the end of the week.”

It seemed cruel to deny her this one small request. Draco nodded. He shrank the pelt and wrapped it in a handkerchief. Foolishly, he wanted to keep it – to keep Harry – from getting cold.

“Please be careful with it,” he said. “And . . . and if I could ask you for so much, please don’t tell anyone it was me . . . who killed him. I couldn’t bear it. I think it might kill me. Please think of my son.”

Granger nodded and carefully placed the pelt in her purse. She walked unsteadily to the door, and the wolf trotted after her.

She paused on the threshold to scratch its ear. “I guess I’ll have to find another name for you,” she said with a weak laugh that turned into a sob.

* * * *

Harry didn’t return to Hermione’s cottage with her. The trip on the Knight Bus to Draco’s house had been terrible. He’d thrown up under Hermione’s seat. He still felt nauseous, and being in Draco’s home and seeing the pelt hadn’t helped.

Instead he’d licked Hermione’s hand and then leapt over a hedge into a sheep pasture. He’d find a secluded place to sleep until evening, and then he’d return to Hermione. He didn’t want her to be alone. He could cover huge distances at night, especially when the moon was in it gibbous phase, as it would be tonight.

He didn’t let himself think about the visit with Draco until he found an abandoned den and curled up in the dry leaves. He could smell traces of the den’s previous occupant. A real wolf bitch. Despite himself, his penis swelled and slid from its protective sheath. It was hard being gay when you were an animal. He licked it until he ejaculated.

It probably didn’t help that he’d been surrounded by Draco’s scent just hours before. He could still smell it on his pelt.

Draco.

It wasn’t the first time Harry had seen him. He’d seen him at least once a week for the past four months. He hid out in the hedges surrounding the garden. Draco rarely left his house – usually only on weekends. He lived a short distance from Hogsmeade and walked there on Saturdays if the weather was nice. Harry would follow him. Draco always met Scorpius at The Three Broomsticks for a long leisurely lunch, and then they’d walk around visiting the other shops.

Harry had been relieved to the point of tears (or in his state, a howl) when he’d seen Scorpius for the first time. It was while Draco still lived at the Manor. Scorpius had been playing with the Crup puppy his parents had bought him when he was well enough to leave his bed. Harry had had to be very careful that the puppy didn’t give away his whereabouts, and every time it came near him, he snarled at it, and it went running faster than a Firebolt back to Scorpius. Scorpius would crouch and catch it in his arms, laughing. His face was scarred irreparably, but he wasn’t horribly disfigured, which was nothing short of a miracle. Harry still saw Scorpius’s torn and bloody face in his nightmares. Draco must’ve hired the best Healers in the world. 

But Greyback’s attack on Scorpius wasn’t the only thing Harry had nightmares about.

He’d sometimes returned to the Manor while he’d been searching for something that could prevent Scorpius from Turning. Back then, he’d been in his human form and could Apparate. He’d found he simply couldn’t stay away. Even though he’d known Draco hated him, it still comforted Harry to see him now and then.

But that’d been before the traps.

He hadn’t yet adopted his wolf form, and his limited human senses couldn’t warn him of hidden dangers. Walking through the forest one day shortly after the night of Greyback’s attack, he’d stepped into the jaws of a trap hidden under the leaves.

It’d shattered his ankle. He’d almost had to amputate his lower leg to escape.

He’d tried to convince himself that it wasn’t Draco who’d set it, but then he’d seen Draco set others.

Draco was trying to kill him.

Then he’d found the wolf just before the full moon set. He’d still been in his Werewolf form, and he’d sensed its suffering from miles away. By the time he’d found it, it was dead. He’d been able to smell the curse that killed it. A Dark curse that slowly liquefied a living creature’s internal organs. The wolf had been bleeding from its mouth and eyes and anus. It must’ve died in agony.

It hadn’t been a Werewolf. Harry lay down beside it, his grief catching in his throat, nearly choking him. The Transformation that morning had been particularly brutal, and he’d heard his howls turn into screams. He’d been exhausted afterward and lay curled around the dead wolf, naked in the snow. Part of him had wanted to die with it, but he’d had a mission to complete. He’d had to save Scorpius.

After finding his things, he should’ve left. But he hadn’t. Instead he’d watched through a Disillusionment Charm as Draco had attacked the wolf with his knife like a madman, cutting his hands and yelling curses at the dead animal. He’d called it “Potter” with such fury that Harry had felt lightheaded and sick to his stomach. The man who’d been his husband – who _still was_ his husband – was virtually unrecognisable. His pale hair had been streaked with blood. When he’d torn off his coat, his sweat-soaked shirt had steamed in the cold. Even at a distance and in his human form, Harry had been able to smell him. He’d smelled of rage. Of hatred. He’d laughed crazily when he’d hacked through the last piece of tissue that held the wolf’s pelt to its body.

When Draco returned home, Harry had knelt beside the wolf and whispered a short prayer – the only one he knew. He’d considered burying it, but dead animals return to the earth through the guts of crows and beetles, and he hadn’t wanted to tamper with nature’s process.

So he’d left it. And then he’d left the Manor’s grounds. And then he’d left the country. He’d only returned after he’d found the potion and needed to use his influence as Harry Potter to get it through customs. He’d Owled it to Draco, and then he’d become a wolf.

 

Hermione opened her door when he scratched and ran at him so fast that he instinctively drew back and bared his fangs. It didn’t stop her. She fell on her knees in front of him and hugged him tightly, and then she buried her face in his pelt and began to laugh and cry at the same time.

“Oh, Harry!” she said. “I _knew_ it was you!” 

After awhile she released him and sat back on her heels.

“You git,” she said. “How could you let me think for even a second that that pelt was yours? No steaks for you for a month!”

She laughed giddily and hugged him again. He tilted his head questioningly.

“As soon as I got home, I tested the pelt. I was sure it was yours because why would Draco lie about something like that? But he’s wrong. The pelt isn’t yours; it hadn’t even belonged to a Werewolf . . .”

Harry pulled out of her arms and trotted over to the pelt. He sniffed it. It smelled more of Draco than a wolf. He knew why. He’d watched through the living room window as Draco slept on it, his hands clutching its hair. He laid his head on it and closed his eyes, grieving both for Draco and the innocent animal he’d killed.

Hermione came over and laid her hand on the soft fur. “Poor thing,” she whispered. “I will give this a proper burial after you go back to Draco and show him you’re alive.”

Harry’s eyes flew open, and he lifted his head to stare at her. How did an animal communicate the concept of “NO!!!”? He ran to the door and began scratching so hard that he ruined the paint.

“Harry,” Hermione said firmly. He didn’t turn to look at her, but he knew if he did he’d see her standing with her hands on her hips.

“You saw him. You can’t just leave him like that. He knows you’re innocent, and he thinks that he murdered you! Couldn’t you see what that’s doing to him? I barely recognised him when he opened the door! He’s slowly killing himself, not to mention giving away Scorpius’s inheritance. You can’t let it continue, Harry. You still love him. I _know_ you do.”

She was right, but Harry wished to God she wasn’t. He went to her desk, opened a drawer with his teeth, pulled out one of the articles Draco had written, carried it over to her, threw it on the floor and ripped it to shreds. Then he went to the pelt and nudged it with his muzzle.

“I know,” she said gently. “But that was before he knew the truth. Would you have behaved differently if you were a father and believed you saw your lover trying to kill your son?”

Harry padded over to the fire and flopped down with a sigh.

“You know I’m right,” she said. “You two are so similar in so many ways.”

He gazed at her mournfully.

“He still loves you,” she said, sitting down next to him and running her fingers through his fur. “You had to have seen that. He loves you, Harry. Don’t torture him out of revenge. Revenge has torn the two of you apart enough as it is. You may not be able to go back to the kind of relationship you had before – especially if you decide to stay in your wolf form – but you can give him peace. It would give you peace too. You know it would.”

Harry didn’t move for a long time. He didn’t know what to do. It was true; he still loved Draco, but he’d seen Draco do horrible things . . . But then he, himself, had done horrible things. On full moon nights, he tore animals to pieces – sometimes even people’s pets. True it was better than killing the people themselves, but he was barely in control. The smell of blood made him wild. He was ravenous for death.

Draco had been the same way. Who was Harry to judge him? And Hermione was right. He’d seen Draco’s suffering up close that morning. His eyes were haunted. He looked broken.

He wouldn’t have to do much. He could get Hermione to write a letter describing the situation and bring it to Draco’s house. After Draco finished reading it, he could lick Draco’s hands and rest his head in Draco’s lap. Draco wouldn’t be able to miss the message of forgiveness. And then he’d leave and never return. He’d do what Hermione had said. He’d go to Siberia and find a pack and maybe even a mate. He’d slowly forget that he’d ever been human until one day Draco’s memory would be as distant and shapeless as a cloud.

He stood and trotted to Hermione’s desk where he found a quill and parchment and carried them back to her.

“You want me to write it all down, don’t you?”

Harry nodded.

“And once I do, you’re going to bring it to him.”

He nodded again.

“Okay,” she said. “Get me a bottle of ink.”

* * * *

He couldn’t bear being without Harry’s pelt. It was like losing Harry all over again. There was no way he could make it through the week. How would he sleep? How would he survive?

Draco poured himself another glass of whisky and dropped into the armchair in front of the fireplace. He was drunk. He hadn’t been drunk since he’d been with Harry. They’d gone to a stupid charity dinner and got completely arsed on expensive champagne. They’d been laughing so hard when they’d stepped into the public Floo, their arms linked at the elbows, that they’d garbled the Manor’s address and ended up in the living room of some old witch in Boggy Bottom where they’d had to stay for tea because she’d almost fainted when Harry Potter of all people landed on his arse on her hearth.

He smiled at the recollection and then braced himself for the lightning bolt of grief and regret he knew would follow. It followed every happy memory of his time with Harry.

It was a windy night, and the branches of the cherry trees were scrapping against the windows, so it was awhile before he noticed that there was something scratching at his door. Terror seized him. It must be that creature Granger brought with her that morning.

His fears were confirmed when he looked out the window. The black wolf was on his doorstep, its green eyes glowing in the moonlight. Draco drew his wand, but then a thought came to him. Maybe it was time. Maybe it was time to die and what death could be more fitting than to be torn to shreds by a Werewolf?

He put away his wand, took a deep breath and opened the door, every nerve and muscle prepared for the attack.

But it didn’t come. Instead the wolf slipped past him. Only when it dropped a piece of parchment on the floor at his feet, did Draco realise it was carrying something. It waited to watch him pick it up before it trotted into the living room and lay down in front of the fireplace as though it lived there.

Draco followed it slowly and sat down in the armchair.

“Whisky?” he asked, pouring himself a glass. “I can put it in a bowl.”

The wolf shook its head.

“Mind if I have one?” Draco asked, laughing nervously. He felt stupid talking to an animal, even if it was partly human.

The wolf again shook its head.

“Have it your way,” Draco said, trying to sound blasé. He drained his glass and poured himself another before he picked up what he could now tell was a letter.

_Dear Draco,_

_The wolf you’re with right now is Harry. I’m one hundred percent certain. The pelt you gave me belongs to an unknown wolf, not even a Werewolf. You can rest assured that you did not kill anyone. You are not a murderer, and Harry isn’t dead. I don’t know what he’ll do after you read this letter. I have no idea if he’ll stay or go. But whichever option he chooses, please be kind to him. I don’t need to tell you that you broke his heart. I doubt he will ever assume his human form again. I think he’s been too traumatised. Obviously, he hasn’t told me anything, but I can see it in his eyes. All the same, I think that, by giving you this letter, he’s forgiving you. Please accept it. The two of you need to live your lives and be as free as possible from the past. I hope very much that you both find peace tonight._

_HJG_

The letter slipped from Draco’s hand and fell to the floor. Everything suddenly felt very strange, as though he was looking at the room through the wrong end of a telescope. All the oxygen had escaped through the chimney, and everything was surrounded by a hazy light.

He’d been staring at the letter. When he lifted his eyes, he saw Harry watching him. They stared at each other for a very long time.

At last, Draco whispered Harry’s name, and Harry stood and came over to him. His eyes were the exact same colour that Harry’s had been in his human form even though the shape was different, and his hair was just as black.

Draco reached out a shaking hand and rested it gently on the top of Harry’s head. He whispered Harry’s name again, and then again. It felt strange and wonderful on his tongue.

Harry nudged at Draco’s hand until Draco pulled it back a little way. He started slightly when Harry began licking it.

Draco closed his eyes and swallowed, trying to keep himself from crying.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “You’ll never know how sorry I am. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I’m the monster, not you.”

Tears escaped, and he felt Harry put his paws on his knees and pull himself up so he could lick them away. When he licked Draco’s ear afterward, Draco found himself laughing. He put his arms around Harry’s neck and held him close.

They stayed like that for several minutes, but then Harry pulled away. Draco opened his eyes and found Harry watching him. He licked Draco’s hands again.

And then he backed away and headed slowly for the door.

Draco leapt up from his chair.

“Don’t!” he cried. “Don’t go!”

Harry turned back to look at him.

“Harry, please,” Draco pleaded. “Don’t go.”

Harry lowered his head and didn’t raise it as he turned again and made his way to the front hall.

Draco didn’t know what to do – whether he should run after Harry and try to grab him or stay where he was and try to change his mind before it was too late. He chose the latter. Grabbing a wolf, even one he knew to be Harry, didn’t seem like a good idea. And more importantly, he didn’t want to ruin things by being needy and clinging. If Harry wanted to go, it was his choice. Draco wouldn’t try to stop him. If his last plea didn’t work, he would let Harry go.

“Please stay,” he said one last time. “Just for tonight. You can leave in the morning, just let me have this. Please.”

Harry turned his head to look at him. After what felt like forever, he slowly returned to the living room. Draco almost sobbed with gratitude.

He got out of his chair and knelt on the floor.

“C’mere,” he said softly.

Harry paused but then padded over to him.

“Will you lie down with me by the fire?” Draco asked. 

Harry didn’t indicate he wouldn’t but he also didn’t indicate he would. After a moment, Draco lay down and patted the rug beside him. Harry lowered himself to the floor, and Draco put his arms around him. His hair was even thicker and sleeker and darker than the other wolf’s had been. Draco buried his fingers in it. Harry relaxed with a sigh.

“I thought I’d never hold you again,” Draco whispered. “Tell me this isn’t a dream.”

He laughed softly when Harry licked his face.

The fire was hot and the whisky was making him sleepy, but Draco would be damned if he let himself fall asleep. He didn’t plan to waste a single moment with Harry. But he closed his eyes anyway and shifted closer to Harry, breathing in his scent of leaves and moss and moonlight.

He realised to his alarm that he’d been dozing, when he was woken by a lick on his lips. He opened his eyes to find that Harry had closed his. He was lapping gently at Draco’s lips.

Without pausing to consider what he was doing, Draco opened his mouth and searched for Harry’s tongue with his own.

After awhile of tentative licking, Harry filled Draco’s whole mouth with his tongue. Draco pulled him closer.

The sensation was strange. Harry’s tongue was huge, but Draco’s body responded anyway. Knowing it was _Harry_ he was kissing made him ache with desire. He moaned in encouragement and continued kissing Harry while he reached down and opened his trousers.

He’d planned on making himself come and was almost there when Harry pulled away. Draco reached to have him back, but Harry rose to his feet. For a moment, Draco panicked. Was Harry leaving? But then Harry was turning around and lying down again, his head even with Draco’s groin. 

As soon as he realised what Harry planned to do, Draco reached down and pushed his trousers and pants off his hips, snagging his cock in the process and causing it to slap back against his stomach, soaking his pubic hair with precome. 

Harry made a guttural sound and lapped it up. Draco sat up to take off his shirt and then kicked his trousers all the way off, positioning himself so that Harry could have full access to him. He shuddered hard when he felt Harry’s tongue licking him from his balls to the head of his cock.

“God,” he groaned. “Harry.” 

He was unsure of where to place his hands. He didn’t want to grab Harry’s head and hold him down. He knew it was Harry, but he also knew this was Harry with four-inch fangs. Instead of reaching for him, Draco placed his hands on his own chest and pinched and rubbed his nipples like Harry used to love to do when they’d been together.

A single lick with Harry’s tongue nearly surrounded Draco’s cock entirely. Draco arched into the wet heat. His body felt on fire, and when Harry took a moment to concentrate on his balls, they throbbed and pumped more precome out of his cock. Harry lapped it up hungrily, and Draco groaned his name. Then Harry was licking behind his balls, and Draco was lifting his arse up off the floor to give him access. Harry’s breath was hot between his legs as he licked along the entire crack of Draco’s arse.

It was then Draco knew for sure that if Harry wanted to, he’d let Harry fuck him.

He searched with his hand under Harry’s body until he felt something hot and slick. It was so large that for a second Draco thought he must’ve stumbled across some mystery appendage, but when he wrapped his fingers around it and felt Harry shudder, he knew he’d found Harry’s cock.

It was so slippery that it was hard to hold on to, especially when Harry started pushing into his hand. It didn’t feel anything like a human penis. It was heavy and swollen, but not stiff, and it was pointed with a bulge at its base instead of its head.

Harry’s licking became more insistent. He was clearly intent on making Draco come, and Draco wanted to, desperately. His balls were throbbing constantly now and he couldn’t stop moaning. He was thrusting his hips and it was only a matter of a couple of minutes, but he didn’t want it to end. He kept trying to suppress his encroaching orgasm. He wasn’t anywhere near ready, but Harry showed no sign of relenting.

Draco released Harry’s prick and propped himself up on his elbows. The head of his cock was purple and swollen, and although he couldn’t see them from that angle, he knew his balls were drawn up as close to his body as they could get. He started to feel the telltale tingling in his scalp and toes.

“Harry,” he gasped. “Stop. I’m not ready to come yet.”

It was within a fraction of a second of being too late, but Harry withdrew, and Draco squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight back the contractions he was starting to feel. It was a very close call, but it worked, and Draco opened his eyes, sweating and shaking all over.

“Fuck me,” he said, breathless. 

But Harry shook his head emphatically.

“Why not?” Draco pleaded. “I want you to.”

Harry shook his head again.

“Are you worried that you’ll hurt me?” Draco asked him gently. “Don’t be. I want it. Plus you’re kind of squishy . . .”

Harry barked a short bark that could only be laughter.

“What?” Draco asked. “Are you trying to tell me that wasn’t your penis I was touching? Do you have a hernia or something?”

Harry barked again.

“You idiot,” Draco said fondly. “You won’t make me feel anything I don’t want to feel. I need this. I need _you_.”

Harry stared at him, but at least he wasn’t shaking his head any longer.

“Come on,” Draco pleaded. “It’s okay. This is _us_ , Harry.”

He stopped looking for permission and got on his hands and knees. When he felt Harry sniff his opening, he spread his legs. Harry nuzzled his arse with a whine.

“Come on,” Draco said. “You know you want to.”

After more sniffing and licking and whining, Harry mounted him. He was so heavy that Draco almost collapsed under him, but then Harry shifted to support most of his weight. 

“You almost flattened me, you prat,” Draco said. He arched his back.

It took awhile. Harry’s prick was swollen but it still wasn’t stiff, and it was very slippery. Plus, Harry didn’t have hands to guide himself. Draco thought he’d die with need, and he could tell Harry felt the same way. He was whining and whimpering helplessly.

At last, the pointed head of his penis caught in just the right way, and Draco felt Harry slide into him, and as he did, Harry’s cock began to swell and harden until it was huge and rigid. Harry whimpered. He was shaking all over, clearly trying to hold himself back. He must’ve heard Draco’s cry as the pain of being penetrated by something so big ripped through him.

Harry braced himself and tried to pull out, but Draco told him to stop. As much as it hurt, he still wanted this more than anything. He tried to wriggle his arse encouragingly, but he couldn’t. He was quite literally impaled.

“Come on, Harry,” he said through gritted teeth. “Move.”

And Harry did. He was clearly past the point of being able to stop. He began to thrust, slowly at first and then faster. Draco did everything he could to take him deeper each time. He spread his legs and relaxed as much as he could. He wanted Harry to take his pleasure in his body, whatever that meant for a wolf. Every thrust stretched him wider. Unlike a human, Harry’s cock got bigger the closer it got to his body, but still Draco struggled to take him even deeper until Harry’s thrusts became uneven and he started making noises that almost sounded like words. Draco swore he heard his name among them. Each of Harry’s thrusts nearly drove him to the floor, and he had to brace himself with his arms with all his strength. Harry licked the sweat off his back as he pumped his enormous cock in Draco’s arse.

Suddenly Harry let out a sharp yelp, and after a second, Draco felt liquid heat fill him and keep filling him until he was sure that if he was to touch his belly that it would be distended. Harry was trembling all over, but when he tried to dismount, they both realised at the same moment that he couldn’t. Harry’s penis was still rigid, and it bulged inside Draco’s rectum making it impossible for Harry to pull out. When he tried to, the pain almost made Draco faint.

Harry started to whine and lick Draco’s neck and shoulders, and because Draco knew him so well, he knew Harry was trying to apologise and comfort him. But after a minute or two of being locked together, Draco’s body began to relax. Harry had fisted him a couple of times when they were together, and Draco almost hadn’t been able to bear the pain, but all of a sudden he’d broken through some kind of barrier, and the pain slowly turned into pleasure. 

The same thing began happening to him now. He started moving very slowly and only by fractions, and slowly an orgasm took root and began to bloom. He reached for his cock and began stroking it.

Harry obviously still thought Draco was in pain because he kept licking and whining.

“Harry,” Draco groaned. “It’s okay. I’m going to come. Just stay still. Let me bring myself off.”

Harry whined and then froze as Draco began to fuck himself on the bulge in Harry’s shaft. When he positioned himself just right, it pressed against his prostate. He began rubbing on it, massaging his orgasm into full flower. His passage was already contracting rhythmically, and soon he knew his whole pelvic muscle would be too. He was too focused on the sensation of a slowly building climax to even remember to moan, but he managed to cry out Harry’s name as his orgasm slammed into him, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He felt his whole body strain to squeeze Harry’s cock and then release again and again. It wasn’t just his balls and cock, it was everything. He’d never come so hard in his life. Over and over in quickening pulses, his semen left his body in wrenching spurts. When they finally subsided, all he wanted to do was collapse on the floor, but he was still impaled on Harry’s cock. 

Just the thought of it made him shudder and spurt again.

Harry began licking his back again, and slowly the bulge retreated, and his penis grew soft again. Its slipperiness caused it to slide free of Draco’s body with no additional discomfort. Before it withdrew into the sheath that protected it, Draco dropped his head and looked between his legs at it. He’d felt it, but he hadn’t seen it. It was a deep crimson and shone wetly in the firelight.

Despite its size, all Draco wanted was to have it back in him again. His cock twitched at the mere thought, and he pushed back against Harry’s prick, making Harry whimper and his prick began to protrude again. He pressed its tip against Draco’s loosened hole and slid it in with a guttural whine. At once it grew rigid again, filling Draco almost past the point where he could no longer tolerate the pain – almost but not quite. Harry began to thrust again, growling and panting hotly against Draco’s neck. Then his cock was again throbbing and pulsing and filling Draco’s belly.

Draco took longer this time in bringing his own body to release. He arched and hunched his back like a cat, finding every nerve ending and stimulating them with the bulge in Harry’s cock. The whole time, Harry nuzzled his neck tenderly and kept his hips still so that Draco could use his body to find his pleasure. 

This time when Draco came, he couldn’t hold himself up, and Harry lowered himself and lay on top of him gently. They remained like that for a long time, Draco’s body still humming with his release, until Harry’s erection slowly subsided, and they were able to part.

He was exhausted, but he still couldn’t bear the idea of falling asleep. Harry lay down beside him and draped a foreleg over him. Draco snuggled closer until he felt enveloped in warm soft hair. Harry sighed, making Draco’s fringe blow back, and he laughed softly. He buried his face in Harry’s pelt and felt a thrill of joy and relief when it moved with Harry’s every breath.

“I love you,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “I want you to be happy, whatever that means.”

Harry tightened the muscles in his foreleg and pulled Draco closer. He licked Draco’s lips gently, and Draco accepted it for what it probably was.

A good-bye kiss.

He wasn’t surprised when he woke in the morning to find himself covered with a quilt and Harry gone.

* * * *

Draco was obviously exhausted because he didn’t wake or even stir when Harry carefully separated from him and stood up.

It was chilly for an April morning, and the fire had burned to nothing but embers. Harry tried to poke at it with a stick held in his jaws, but the flames didn’t rekindle. He could’ve been more vigorous about it, but he didn’t want to wake Draco. After what they’d done together the night before, it would make leaving even more difficult than it already was.

Harry loped around the house, sniffing about until he found a quilt in what must be Scorpius’s bedroom. He dragged it downstairs and did his best to cover Draco with it. Then he sniffed Draco one last time, memorising his scent, and padded reluctantly to the door.

He didn’t look back. If he did, he was sure he’d stay. After making love to him, it was all but impossible to leave Draco to wake up alone.

But he had to go.

He was a Werewolf, and he felt himself becoming evermore so with each full moon. He wasn’t even sure his human form would be free of the signs of his affliction. Even when he was in his human form, Greyback still resembled a Werewolf in many – unpleasant – ways. And Remus’s eyes weren’t quite normal even though, unlike Harry and Greyback, he never spent weeks and months at a time as a wolf.

Harry had heard Draco’s words when he and Hermione had first arrived at Draco’s home. Draco may love _him_ , but he still hated Werewolves. After the thrill of being reunited wore off, Draco would begin to find him revolting, and that revulsion would slowly turn into loathing. Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to bear going through that. 

Considering Draco’s opinion of Werewolves, Harry had been shocked when Draco let Harry touch him last night. He’d thought Draco maybe could’ve tolerated some snuggling, but he never would’ve imagined in a million years that Draco would welcome more than that.

He hadn’t been able to stop himself. When Draco had dozed off beside him, Harry hadn’t been able to stop looking at his mouth and his cheeks flushed from the heat of the fire. He’d known he shouldn’t, but he’d _had_ to taste Draco’s skin. When Draco had wakened, Harry had fully expected him to summon his wand. Letting Harry lick his hand was worlds apart from letting Harry lick his mouth. But instead of stunning him, Draco had opened his mouth and welcomed Harry’s awkward kiss. 

After that, Harry had been lost. The scent of Draco’s arousal had made his heightened senses spin, and the taste of his precome had made him drool unstoppably. Fortunately, Draco had been too far gone to notice the abundance of saliva between his legs. He’d wanted so badly to make Draco come with his tongue, but then Draco had proposed the unthinkable.

He’d begged Harry to make love to him.

It was a horrible idea, and Harry had tried to communicate that to him. He knew his body. He knew how big his erection got and how a bone slid into it, making it impossibly rigid. And he’d always wondered what that bulge was all about that protruded after he came. Now he knew. It was clearly meant to keep a mating pair from separating until the female was impregnated.

But Draco had insisted, and Harry hadn’t had the strength to resist. He’d ached for relief and for the sensation of being buried again in Draco’s body as Draco writhed and moaned beneath him. But when he’d first mounted him, Harry had wanted to stop. He’d felt Draco go still and taut with pain. He’d tried to pull out, but thank God Draco had voluntarily stopped him because Harry had realised he couldn’t stop himself. The rutting instinct had taken over; his animal brain needed to impregnate his mate. He couldn’t stop until he’d ejaculated.

He’d tried to be as gentle as he possibly could, but even his ejaculation had probably been uncomfortable. There was just so much come. He should’ve remembered that before he’d mounted Draco in the first place. When he licked himself to release, his semen spurted hard, much harder than it had in his human form, and it covered the ground in long thick ropes. After all, he was a big animal, and big animals had big mates, and big mates needed a lot of seed to become pregnant.

When he’d finally pulled out, he’d watched his come flow out of Draco’s body and pool on the floor. The puddle had been huge, but it was probably only a quarter of the amount of semen Harry had ejaculated. Especially since he’d been inside _Draco_. His animal brain had instantly recognised its soul’s intended mate and not understanding the concept of homosexuality, his body had done its best to make Draco conceive their offspring.

God, if Draco had _any_ idea, he’d probably start setting traps again.

Then he’d done it all over again and probably would’ve wanted to yet again if Draco hadn’t collapsed from exhaustion. His animal senses would’ve been able to smell conception, and when it didn’t happen, he probably would’ve kept trying and trying.

Fuck.

Harry tried to ignore the unsheathing of his penis as he trotted down the lane. His body would never understand why he was abandoning his beautiful mate, but his head had to. He was still human enough to be able to beat the Werewolf inside him into submission. He did it all the time when it came to the instinct to kill. He had to do it now when it came to the instinct to fuck . . . and protect. Werewolves often died trying to defend their mates from harm. It was one of the things that made them so dangerous. Unless they were truly evil like Greyback, they didn’t usually attack unless they, themselves, felt threatened or they sensed their mate was. In such cases, they certainly lived up to their reputations.

Harry saw why. If he ever sensed anyone trying to hurt Draco, he knew in his heart of hearts that he would kill.

“You’re back,” Hermione said when she opened the door to his scratching. He loped past her and went to the refrigerator. He was starving.

She sighed and followed him into the kitchen.

“I guess it was just me being a romantic sap, but I’d thought you might stay with him.”

Harry scratched at the refrigerator door and barked. He didn’t want to hear her opinion. He’d made up his mind. He’d stay with her for a couple of days and then start making his way to Siberia.

She got him a raw steak and put it on his plate that read “Harry’s Dish – Touch At Your Peril.” He barely tasted it, he ate it so fast. He barked again.

“Hungry, huh?” she asked. “Did you and Draco spend all night playing fetch?”

He stared at her. Was she serious? He couldn’t tell.

“I’m publishing another foundation newsletter tomorrow,” she said as she headed to her desk after giving him another steak.

Harry’s chest suddenly felt tight. In all his thinking about Draco, he’d forgotten he was going to have to say good-bye to her as well. He padded over to her and licked her hand.

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Ew,” she said. “You just ate two pieces of raw bloody meat. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a vegan.”

Harry laughed with a bark. Only Hermione would simultaneously be a vegan _and_ the defender of the world’s most vicious carnivores.

He lay down at her feet. Even after Draco had fallen asleep, he’d stayed awake, grappling with himself. He wanted to stay. No matter what had happened in the past, he and Draco clearly made each other happy. But then he’d remembered reality. He was a Werewolf, the very definition of a pariah. Just knowing Draco was seeing Harry again would terrify Scorpius and maybe even drive him away. Harry never again wanted to be even the imagined cause of their separation.

And how would he live? Everyone knew his secret. He’d never be an Auror again. People would demand his capture and imprisonment, and he’d endanger Hermione – and Draco – if they tried to protect him.

He couldn’t let that happen. He had to leave.

He started when Hermione’s voice broke the silence.

“I know what you’re thinking, Harry Potter.”

He lifted his head off his forepaws and looked at her.

“You’re going to go away, aren’t you?”

He stared at her. She’d been able to read his mind – human or lupine – since the hunt for Horcruxes. Maybe even sooner.

“Just make sure that’s what you really want.”

He licked her foot in its ridiculous pink rabbit slipper.

“Don’t feel bad for me,” she said. “I visit the Werewolf communities in Siberia and Eastern Europe all the time. You can’t hide from me.”

He wagged his tail, thumping it on the floor.

“Yes, you love me, I know,” she said, scratching his ear. “But you also love Draco. Don’t bother trying to deny it.”

Harry whined at her. She looked at him thoughtfully.

“And that’s one of the reasons you’re going, isn’t it?” she said musingly. “To protect him from yourself and all the trouble you’d bring raining down on his life if you stayed.”

Harry dropped his head back down on his forepaws with a weary sigh.

“I knew it,” she said. “When are you going to stop being a hero and be happy? You were a hero with Voldemort at the cost of your childhood. You were a hero with Greyback at the cost of your humanity and the love of your life. And now you’re going to be a hero by exiling yourself – literally – to Siberia.”

Shit. When she put it that way . . .

He just stared at her.

“You prat,” she said sadly. “When do you plan to leave? Tomorrow?”

He shook his head.

“The next day?”

He nodded.

She bit her lip, and he saw her eyes fill with tears, but then she coughed and straightened her shoulders until she could look stern and practical again.

“Okay, then,” she said. “We’ll need to come up with a plan.

* * * *

Draco lay under the quilt in front of the cold fireplace for a long time, not wanting to move. He’d known Harry would probably be gone when he woke, but still the reality was like a punch in the chest.

He rolled over onto his side. His body _ached_ , and not entirely pleasantly. He’d pushed it to the limit last night, and it wasn’t going to let him forget it for several days. But that was okay. As long as the discomfort remained, so did the vividness of the memory of Harry making love to him.

Making love to him. Was that what it’d been? Did the concept of “making love” encompass being fucked by a Werewolf?

Draco sat up with a start as sudden recollection seized him . . .

He’d forgotten that Granger was publishing her foundation’s newsletter tomorrow addressing proposed legislation calling for rounding-up of all Werewolves, both registered and unregistered, and killing them with silver bullets!

Before he’d learned that Harry was still alive, he’d not really cared all that much. He wasn’t in favour of the proposal, but he wasn’t exactly opposed to it either. He’d declined to sign a petition that’d been passed around at The Three Broomsticks the week before last, but he’d sat by and watched everyone else sign it.

What had he been thinking?

He scrambled to his feet and pulled on his trousers, the crotch of which was promptly soaked. Merlin, how much did Harry come last night?

He didn’t bother to change. He’d have time later. He ran to his study and pulled a piece of parchment out of his desk drawer. He sat down, grabbed the first quill he could find and began writing furiously.

_Granger,_

_Being a supporter of the Werewolf Rights Foundation, I know that you’re planning to publish a newsletter soon about the pending legislation ordering that all Werewolves be captured and summarily shot. I want to add my thoughts if I may. Please grant me this favour. I won’t remind you of the millions of Galleons I’ve donated. Please publish this in full without redaction:_

_The proposed legislation is barbaric and unfitting of a civilised society. I am ashamed to be a citizen of a nation that could even consider rounding up an already persecuted minority of its citizens and executing them without even the pretence of due process. It was bad enough when all Werewolves, regardless of their personal histories, were being hunted and captured and imprisoned. This new measure is unthinkably savage, and its passage would debase us all._

_My son was almost Turned. The Werewolf who bit him, Fenrir Greyback, was a known murderer and supporter of Voldemort who deserved to die. My son, by contrast, was an innocent child and so were some of the Werewolves this government wants to slaughter. They were someone’s children once, and all Werewolves were once somebody’s parent, sibling, friend or spouse – often all of them at once. Yes, Werewolves are dangerous, but that’s because we don’t provide them with safe, secure surroundings during the full moon. As it is, free Werewolves take their Transformations into their own hands, often with disastrous results – both to the Werewolf and to society at large._

_We call them abominations, but that’s exactly what we will be if this law passes. We risk our humanity with this proposal. There will be blood on our hands – unnecessary blood – if we allow this genocide to happen. We need to change our thinking. We need to consider trying to integrate Werewolves into our society. We need to help them with their affliction, not punish them for it. We are wasting untold numbers of lives – lives that deserve to be lived free from vigilantes and ugly ignorant mobs._

_Draco L. Malfoy, Lord, Gentleman, and Member of the Order of the Phoenix_

The ink wasn’t even dry when he folded the parchment and summoned his owl.

* * * *

“Is he insane?” Hermione exclaimed.

She’d been writing her newsletter and hadn’t spoken for hours. Her sudden words startled Harry and caused him to involuntarily snarl and bare his fangs.

“Don’t you dare growl at me, Harry Potter,” she said, but she was obviously distracted. 

He stood and stretched. His body still remembered last night. He stretched again and then padded over to Hermione to see what she was going on about. He stood on his hind legs and put his forepaws on her desk, trying to read the parchment in her hand. He recognised the script immediately.

“He’s written an essay for the newsletter,” she said, “basically called wizarding Britain an ‘ugly ignorant mob.’ He’s going to be crucified by the press!”

Harry bared his fangs, but this time it was his version of a grin.

She ran her hand through her hair making it even frizzier than it already was. She didn’t look amused.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “Two twin babies were disembowelled last week. I know the Werewolf that did it – she’s deranged after having been imprisoned in Azkaban for years. Not that that excuses her actions, but still . . . I haven’t seen people so crazed for blood since Scorpius was bitten. Draco is insane to throw himself in front this train. He doesn’t understand that establishing rights for a minority is a frustratingly slow process that must be approached with the utmost delicacy and tact. His essay is neither tactful nor delicate. Here, read it for yourself.”

She dropped it on the floor where Harry could see it.

“The essay I wrote was all about honouring the babies by proposing more humane legislation in their memory. Even saying _that_ will get me spat on in the streets given the political climate at the moment. I’ve got to contact Draco. I can’t publish this essay.”

Harry just looked at her. He was pretty sure she’d find him unapologetic and probably belligerent. Draco could be a stubborn prat sometimes.

She went to her fireplace mumbling “please be home, please be home” under her breath. Harry shrank into the shadows. He didn’t want Draco to see him and pour salt on the wound Harry was sure he’d inflicted by leaving without even saying good-bye. The thought of it shamed him and filled him with regret . . .

. . . but maybe . . . maybe he didn’t really have to go . . .

He suppressed the thought. His instincts were right. He couldn’t stay, no matter how much he wanted to. 

Hermione looked like she’d almost given up when Draco’s face appeared.

“Granger,” he said flatly. “Don’t even bother.”

“Draco,” she said. “I can’t let you do this. I can’t publish your essay . . .”

“Do you want any more cheques?” he asked. “Because you could suddenly find your funds have dried up.”

Harry couldn’t see it, but he was sure that Hermione’s face was purple with indignation.

“Don’t you dare threaten me,” she said. “I’m looking out for your best interests.”

“What about Harry’s?” Draco snapped. “Are you looking out for his too? This is no time for bake sales, Granger. People are going to get killed! Harry could be among them . . .”

“And so could you!” Hermione shouted.

Harry had been scratching his ear, but he froze when he heard Hermione’s words. He’d agreed with her that the papers would have a feeding frenzy, but he’d been confident Draco could more than take care of himself. He hadn’t considered the possibility that . . .

“You’ll be outing yourself as a Werewolf sympathiser at the worst possible time imaginable,” Hermione said. “Some nutter’s going to kill you.”

Draco snorted derisively. “He can try.”

“Draco,” she pleaded. “Please. It’d break Harry’s heart if something happened to you . . .”

“And it would break _mine_ if something happened to him and I knew I’d stood by and done _nothing_. Either you publish the essay, or I will. Where’s your grit? Politics has made you timid and soft.”

Harry was sure Hermione’s face was even more purple now.

“Don’t try to bait me,” she said. “I’m immune to your taunts.”

Harry saw Draco smile. “I doubt that,” he said. “I think that in the end I can rely on your inner bomb thrower.”

Hermione harrumphed, but she didn’t respond. Draco had won.

“Can I at least publish it under a pseudonym?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because my role as a previous member of the ‘ugly ignorant mob’ will really make people listen, and that’s what we want them to do, right?”

Hermione nodded weakly. “Okay,” she said uncertainly.

“Trust me,” Draco said. “I can take care of myself.”

“I never said you couldn’t, I just . . .”

“Why are we still discussing this?”

Hermione laughed. “Alright, we’ll stop. I’m preparing the newsletter for publication right now. It’ll be Owled to the public tomorrow. Brace yourself for a tidal wave of hate mail, and don’t plan on dining in Hogsmeade in the near future. Good-bye, Draco . . .”

“Wait!” he cried. “Please tell me – is Harry there with you?”

She turned around to look at Harry. “Are you?” she mouthed.

Harry let his head and ears droop. Hermione sighed sadly. She turned back to the fireplace.

“No, I’m sorry, Draco. He left already.”

There was a long silence.

“Do you know where he’s gone?”

Hermione again turned back to Harry with a questioning look.

Harry slowly shook his head.

She turned back to Draco. “No,” she said quietly.

After another long pause, Draco nodded.

“Right,” he said after clearing his throat. “Okay, well . . .” he cleared his throat again. “ . . . I hope he’s left the country. It’s not safe for him here. If he contacts you . . .”

“. . . I’ll tell him you say ‘hello.’”

Draco smiled a wry smile. “What’s this ‘hello’ shit?” he said. “Tell the furry git I love him.”

* * * *

Draco moved away from the fireplace and wiped his eyes.

So that was it. Harry was gone.

He got to his feet and went to the library. He’d brought only the rarest and most valuable books with him when he’d moved and left the rest at the Manor under a protective shield.

The book on Werewolves was covered with fur, and it snarled at him when he took it off the self. Beneath the title on the front cover was an admonishment to never ever _under any circumstances_ read the book while the moon was full. He turned to the chapter about societies friendly to Werewolves. There were very few listed, but they included eastern Russia and several of the former Soviet states.

He hoped to God that was where Harry was headed. He wasn’t safe anywhere in Western Europe. If the git stayed to watch over him, Draco would kick his arse, Werewolf or not.

But his smile at the thought turned into an all-too-familiar sense of loss. He’d held Harry in his arms for such a short time after months of yearning for him.

At least he knew now that Harry was alive and that Harry still had feelings for him. That knowledge was going to have to sustain him.

When evening fell, he took a walk through the fields and woods surrounding his house. The moon was almost full. Everything was gilded with a silver sheen. He imagined what it would be like to make love with Harry in this light. He paused and closed his eyes, imagining Harry moving above him, in him, and was surprised that Harry shifted back and forth between his human and wolf forms. It didn’t seem to matter in Draco’s imagination. Either way, it was Harry.

He didn’t return to his house until sunrise, and as soon as he did, he fell into bed, exhausted. He must’ve walked for miles. In his dreams, he felt hot breath against the back of his neck and a gentle tongue licking his shoulders . . .

. . . and then he woke.

He heard a crash in the living room and ran downstairs to find a rock the size of a school cauldron on the floor surrounded by glass.

Clearly Granger had published his essay. He grinned and Banished the rock.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he shouted through his shattered window.

“Not even close,” came the gruff reply from the other side of the hedge.

Draco rolled his eyes. “You’ll find I’m not easily intimidated,” he called. “So you’ll have to come up with something a lot more imaginative than a rock!”

There was the sound of several people laughing, and then something else crashed through the window, propelled by a spell. This thing was bigger. It broke into several pieces when it hit the opposite wall, and it took a moment before Draco recognised it to be a broom handle. He picked up the largest piece and was about to throw it into the fireplace, when he saw the initials.

_SM_

* * * *

Harry was on the ship of a notorious pirate waiting to set sail when an owl landed on his back and sank its talons in his pelt. He bared his fangs and snapped at it, but it was unfazed. Clearly, it’d dealt with wolves before because it knew exactly where to perch to remain out of the range of his jaws. He growled at it, but all it did was sink its talons deeper until he yelped and stood up, trying to shake it off. Finally, it flew up to perch on a stack of crates and dropped a letter on his head.

Given the owl’s blasé treatment of Werewolves, he assumed the message was Hermione. Probably another admonishment to refrain from eating this or that or whatever. He pawed at it until it unfolded. He was right: it was from Hermione, but it wasn’t about Siberian livestock. It’d obviously been written hastily – so hastily that Hermione had actually foregone proper sentence construction.

_Scorpius! Come quickly! Kidnapped!_

Harry stared at the almost illegible words for several moments. Suddenly he felt something happening inside him, and he could tell immediately that whatever it was, it wasn’t good. He watched in alarm as his paws grew larger and his nails grew longer and sharper, shining like polished ebony. His mouth filled with blood as his teeth lengthened. He could feel his shoulders broaden and his legs strengthen. He searched desperately for something he could see his reflection in and finally found a window. It was dull and grimy, but that didn’t matter. He could still see himself.

He was absolutely terrifying. As bad as – if not worse than – Greyback himself. 

He’d Transformed without the full moon! He hadn’t known such a thing was even possible!

He tried with everything he had to Transform back into his human form or, at very least, his wolf form. He didn’t have a wand. It would be hard without a weapon to hurt anyone seriously, but staying a Werewolf would mean that people would die. He was sure of it.

But he couldn’t Transform either into a human or a wolf. The Werewolf had swallowed both.

He began howling wretchedly.

His mate was in danger. He was going to kill. There was nothing he could do to stop himself. He was going to maim and slaughter and leave nothing but guts and bones in his wake.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realised that _this_ was exactly why Werewolves could never – probably _should_ never – be free.

He tried to make himself as terrifying as possible. It was the only way to keep people from getting in his way as he ran through the streets of Dover. All around him were screams and the screeching of tires. If some poor person was in his way, Harry bowled him or her over, probably leaving them with broken bones and a lifetime of nightmares.

After awhile he lost track of his surroundings – all he knew was the straightest route to Draco, which took him through cities and forests and fields and moors and villages and towns. He ran for the rest of the evening and then through the night, covering hundreds of miles as though they were feet. His tongue hung from his jaws, and his claws tore up the ground, even pavement and stone. He didn’t stop to drink or eat but kept running.

Hermione must’ve been waiting by the door because she threw it open the second she saw him enter her yard. She called his name, but he knew she mustn’t come anywhere near him. He hoped desperately that she’d recall all her experience with Werewolves and keep a safe distance even though she knew it was him. He raised his hackles, bared his teeth and made a vicious sound that was neither human nor wolf.

Thankfully she stopped short at the last second. She raised her hands in a calming gesture and stepped back.

“It’s okay, Harry,” she said soothingly. “You’re safe with me. I’m not going to hurt you. I know how to protect your kind. I have safe places where you can hide. Trust me, I have a lot of experience. I’ve been doing this since you destroyed Voldemort.”

For some reason her reference to his defeat of Voldemort calmed him and reminded him he had the strength inside himself to not surrender his humanity entirely.

He stopped baring his fangs and dropped his hackles. But when Hermione asked if it was okay to approach and touch him, he shook his head violently. It was too risky, but he could tell from her expression that she understood.

“I’m going to talk to you now about the Malfoys . . .”

It was clear she was avoiding Draco’s name on purpose. That was a smart thing.

“. . . SM is safe for the moment, although he’s still being held captive in one of the vigilantes’ houses. No one can get to him, not even DM. Whoever these cretins are, they’ve set up some very impressive wards. I have a feeling we’re not dealing with amateurs . . .”

She paused and very slowly drew her wand, making sure Harry could see her every movement. All the same, he bared his fangs again and crouched to spring. She made the calming gesture with her free hand again.

“It’s alright, Harry,” she said quietly but clearly. “You can see that I’ve drawn my wand. I need to do that to protect myself. What I’m about to tell you is going to upset you, and I don’t know what you’ll do. I will need to Stun or Petrify you if you attack me. I don’t want to, but for both our sakes, I don’t want you to hurt me.” 

She paused, trying to even out her breathing, but Harry could smell her fear.

“DM is inside my cottage right now. He’s in bed, hopefully sleeping. He doesn’t know you’re here. He was severely injured trying to rescue his son . . .”

Everything went blood-red and before he could even begin to stop himself, Harry lunged, and in the next instant, he fell to the ground and couldn’t move.

Hermione brushed away sweat from her brow. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He just stared at her, unable to even blink. The red haze behind his eyes lessened somewhat, but it didn’t go away.

“I was about to tell you he’s safe,” Hermione said. “He’s been seen by Healers, and he’s going to be alright, but he’s bedridden at the moment, which, as I’m sure you can imagine, is utterly infuriating for him. He’s been a dreadful patient. I’ve had to Petrify him too.”

Somewhere deep inside of him, Harry felt his human self smile and shake his head. What a git.

His Werewolf self blinked, and the red went away. But Hermione still didn’t release him.

“We have a team of your former colleagues – including Fergus – working on rescuing SM. I’ve been in close contact with Fergus, and he’s certain that it’s only a matter of time before they can get access to SM and capture his kidnappers. It’s a chore trying to keep DM from charging in and messing up the Aurors’ carefully made plans. He mustn’t do that.” She paused and took a deep breath. “And neither can you . . .”

The blood-red haze returned with a vengeance. Of course he was going to get involved! He was going to tear the throats out of every person who even _thought_ of hurting Draco or Scorpius – especially the person who’d injured Draco. He was a dead man walking.

“. . . I brought you here not to save SM, but to comfort DM. He needs you. He’s terrified for his son. Now, if I release you, will you come inside with me?”

Harry stared at her. It wasn’t as though he could answer.

After a long moment, she pointed her wand at him and said “ _Finite_.”

Harry sprang to his feet. Hermione flinched, but she stood her ground. “I’ve never dealt with a Werewolf as upset as you are right now,” she said with an anxious laugh. “You’re scaring me a little bit.”

If it’d been safe to do so, Harry would’ve approached her and licked her hand, but it wasn’t safe. Not at all. But all the same, he followed her as she backed up toward her front door, her wand still pointed at him.

Once they were inside, she pointed to the stairs. “The back bedroom,” she said. “Please, Harry – I know you don’t want to hurt him, but you’re very dangerous right now. Remember to be extremely careful.”

He nodded curtly and trotted to the stairs which he ascended in three strides. He’d been able to smell Draco’s scent when he entered the cottage, but it was much stronger now. He padded as quietly as he could toward Draco’s bedroom, and nudged the door open with his snout.

* * * *

Draco awoke to the sound Granger’s voice talking to someone about him. He rolled his eyes when he heard her say he was an annoying patient. Was it really a surprise? Crazy nutters were holding his son in exchange for Draco’s recantation of his essay and his full public support of the Werewolf Extermination Act . . .

. . . and he’d been adamant about not doing it, but then hours turned into days and as he lay useless in bed, he began to imagine his son’s fear. He knew Scorpius was wondering where he was and why he wasn’t protecting him like he’d promised he would.

Fevered dreams brought images of Scorpius being tortured and killed, and he began to think of Greyback and the Werewolf who’d killed those babies and . . . Well, Harry was safe somewhere. The law wouldn’t hurt him, and wasn’t that the only thing Draco really cared about? Harry was Harry, but other Werewolves were nothing more than ugly menacing brutes that had no rights and shouldn’t be given any.

He was remembering Greyback when suddenly something out of his worst nightmares opened the door.

He summoned his wand so fast that he almost hadn’t been able to catch it. But he did, and he pointed it at the horrible creature with its red eyes the size and shape of saucers and fangs so long its jaws couldn’t even contain them. For a second, Draco was sure he would faint. Was _this_ what he was protecting at the expense of his son? He pointed his wand at the Werewolf, but his hand shook so much that the stunning spell hit the door and blew it off its hinges, missing the monster entirely. He squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself for the inevitable counterattack.

It never came.

Instead he heard a grotesque whimper and opened his eyes a crack.

The thing was crawling on its belly toward Draco, and then it was trying to get under his bed like a puppy frightened by an Exploding Snap card. Of course, it was too big and turned the bed on its side. Draco had to hold on to one of the posts to keep from getting trapped between the mattress and wall. He felt a stab of pain in his wounded side.

All the while, the monster kept making the most horrible sounds.

He heard Granger come in the front door.

“Granger!” he yelled. “Get the hell up here right now! One of your beasts is trying to kill me!”

He heard Granger come running up the stairs, and then she barged through the splintered door.

“DRACO!” she screamed. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”

Draco looked at her with extreme irritation and disbelief. “What the hell do you mean, what am _I_ doing? What are _you_ doing letting this monster roam around your house?”

“THAT’S NOT A MONSTER! THAT’S HARRY! WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM?!”

Draco just stared her. She was a raving lunatic.

“That _thing_ under my bed is _not_ Harry,” he said firmly. “It’s a Werewolf.”

It was her turn to stare at him.

“Harry _is_ a Werewolf,” she shouted. “You know that!”

Draco shook his head. “Not _that_ kind of Werewolf!” He pointed with his wand at the thing’s bristling mud-coated rump.

She glared at him. “How many kinds of Werewolves do you think there are?”

Draco glared right back at her. “There are the Harry-type of Werewolf and the Greyback-type of Werewolf. _That_ ,” he said, pointing again at the creature’s rump, “is the Greyback-type.”

The thing let out a howl so primal and awful that both Draco and Granger covered their ears.

“Harry,” she said. “Come out. You scared him, that’s all. It was unbelievably stupid of me not to tell him you were here before sending you upstairs.”

But the creature wouldn’t show its face.

“It has red eyes,” Draco said. “And bloody claws.”

Granger sighed. “Most Werewolves’ eyes turn red when they’re very upset,” she said. “And his claws are bloody because his pads are bleeding. He ran here from Dover, for Merlin’s sake! I sent him an Owl telling him about Scorpius.”

But Draco had had enough. At the mention of his son’s name, he remembered what was truly at stake – not some monster out of the darkest of nightmares like the one under his bed, but his own frightened little boy.

He climbed off the tilted bed, clutching the wound on his side with a grimace of pain.

“That’s it,” he said and summoned a parchment and quill.

“What are you doing?” Granger asked in alarm.

“Something I should’ve done right at the beginning,” he said. He scribbled down his acceptance of the vigilantes’ terms, and – because he hated Granger and the thing under his bed and everything else in the entire fucking world – he added as a postscript that if they wanted a bloody Werewolf, there was one under his bloody bed right now.

He called to his owl and told it to take the letter to the kidnappers as quickly as possible.

And then he stomped downstairs and marched out of the house.

Granger ran after him. “What did you do?” she cried. “Where are you going? You’re not well enough to be out of bed . . .”

Draco turned on her. “My bed is tipped on its side with a Werewolf underneath it! Pardon me if I’d rather find other accommodations!”

“What did you write in that letter?” Granger called after him as he drew his wand and prepared to Apparate.

He didn’t answer her. He was done talking to someone whose head was so deeply buried in the sand she could probably see the Great Wall of China and smell dumplings frying. He envisioned his garden and had almost fully Apparated when a hex hit him.

It took a moment, to realise what’d happened. He felt a tearing pain in his side and when he looked down, blood began soaking through his shirt at a distressing rate. The thwarted Apparition must’ve caused the fresh scars to burst open. He fell to his knees on the gravel path. A man came over and stood above him.

“Sorry ‘bout that, mate,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Now where’s this Werewolf you mentioned? We’ve brought the boy . . .” He gestured to a man who stepped around the hedge, pushing Scorpius before him. “. . . Now where’s the beast?”

Draco looked at his son.

Scorpius’s eye sockets were empty. The bastards had taken his glass eyes!

“Scorpius,” he called, trying to keep his voice as calm as he could. “It’s okay. I’m here. You’re going to be okay. I’m going to take care of you.”

Scorpius turned his head in the direction of Draco’s voice and cried out “Daddy!” The only silver lining to the situation was that because he was blind, he couldn’t see that Draco was hurt. Draco clutched his side, trying to stop the bleeding. He was beginning to feel faint. He must not lose consciousness.

Giving up on Draco, one of the men turned to Granger who’d been bound by an _Incarcerous_. “Where’s the monster?” he asked threateningly. “You have till the count of ten to tell us. One . . . two . . . three . . .”

She looked him in the eyes and told him to go to hell. 

Damn her.

“It’s in the cottage!” Draco yelled. “Just kill it and let my son go! Please! I’m begging you! I’ve done everything you asked of me and more!”

Granger looked at him with such horror that he was stunned into silence for a moment.

“How _could_ you?!” she cried. “That’s your lover in there!”

The men broke out laughing. 

“No wonder you were against the new law,” one said. “You’re fucking a Werewolf.” He turned to Scorpius. “Did you hear that, kiddo? You’re dad’s fucking a Werewolf. Not so nice considering one of the beasts almost killed you.”

Scorpius turned his face in Draco’s direction and looked like he was about to say something when Draco heard a terrible noise. Blood suddenly splattered his face. 

He shouted and tried to stagger to his feet. What the _hell_ was going on?

Then he saw it.

He wished to God almighty that he hadn’t. He’d trade years from his life just to have the image expunged from his memory.

The man who’d threatened Granger was lying screaming on the grass with one of his arms hanging on by nothing but a tendon, and a black wolf-like creature the size of a Hypogriff was charging at Draco with blood stained fangs.

Draco was just about to throw himself out of the monster’s trajectory when three things happened at once. The creature leapt over him, Granger screamed, and someone shouted _Crucio_!

The curse missed the Werewolf and hit him.

* * * *

Harry knew he was no longer himself. Harry was gone, and the Werewolf was free. Free to maim and rip and murder without compunction or remorse. It could smell blood and terror and pain – its mate’s pain.

The people who hurt its mate would die. _Everyone_ would die – the screaming woman, the fleeing man, even the boy. Everyone except its mate.

Its mate who was writhing in the dirt, screaming in agony.

It would try to save its mate somehow – it would find a way. But first the man who tried to kill its mate must die. It lunged at him, and it smelled blood and urine as its jaws closed around the man’s neck . . .

The woman screamed.

“Harry!” she cried. “Don’t! Stop! This isn’t you! You’re not a killer!”

Who or what was this “Harry” thing? The word resonated somewhere deep and nearly inaccessible in the Werewolf’s brain.

“Please, Harry! Think of Draco! Don’t do this!”

 _Draco_. That word was familiar too. Familiar in a good way. Was this “Draco” thing his mate? But if so, why would the screaming woman tell it to remember its mate? Of course it remembered its mate! Its mate was why it was going to disembowel every living creature within a mile’s radius.

“Don’t hurt his son! Please, Harry! It’s the nightmare repeating itself all over again!”

For some reason it didn’t understand, it dropped the man from its jaws. The other men rushed forward to grab him and pull him away. The Werewolf heard a popping sound, and the man who’d hurt its mate vanished.

It howled with fury. Another one of the men started to cry and blubber like a wolf pup and plead to something he called “god.”

The Werewolf ran to its mate and licked and howled and wailed. It could tell its mate was dying.

“For God’s sake, someone cast _Finite_ ,” one of the men cried, and suddenly the Werewolf’s mate stopped writhing in agony. It was confused. The man had helped its mate.

It didn’t matter. The Werewolf attacked him anyway. The man’s scream ended in a wet gurgle.

“LET ME GO!” the screaming woman screamed.

It was going to kill her next. Her screams were confusing it. Her voice sounded . . .

There was another _Finite_ and more popping sounds. The men were disappearing!

“Take Scorpius!” the woman yelled. “He’s not safe!”

“How ironic that he’s safer with his kidnappers than he is with his Werewolf-loving father,” the man holding the boy said. “But don’t think we’re taking _you_ , Granger. You deserve to die at this Hell-fiend’s jaws. A fitting end, I’d say.”

Suddenly he and the boy were gone.

“Please, for God’s sake!” the Werewolf’s mate cried weakly after them. “Don’t hurt my son!”

“Draco,” the woman said, running towards its mate, “it’s going to be okay. Scorpius will be safe and the Healers are on the way. You’re going to be alright. Just hold on, please!”

The Werewolf saw nothing but a terrible red. The woman was attacking its mate! She was the last of its mate’s enemies that remained.

It lunged and knocked the woman away from its mate. There was fear and hurt in her eyes, but then she was on her back, and her eyes were closed. The Werewolf stalked toward her. Its mouth was salivating for the taste of her death. It opened its jaws wide enough to crush her skull in one bite . . .

. . . But then a pain so terrible hit it that it fell on its side on the ground. It struggled to rise and finish the kill, but the pain struck it again.

Suddenly, there was a man standing over it with one of those strange sticks pointed at its face.

Just as the words “Harry” and “Draco” had touched something in its brain, the man’s face did not look entirely strange.

The Werewolf paused. This man confused him just as the woman’s screaming had.

It could smell fear radiating off the man’s body like heat, but the man did not back away. He kept his stick pointed at it.

“Leave her alone,” the man said in a shaking voice. “Go back to the filthy lair you came from or I will kill you.”

It tried to struggle to its feet again when it heard more popping sounds.

Suddenly there were more men and women surrounding its mate. Touching its mate. Making its mate cry out in pain.

Despite its own pain, the Werewolf staggered to its feet. It would deal with the man with the stick later. First, it must protect its mate. 

If its mate died, so would it.

It howled in savage rage and lunged at the men and women circling its mate, but it didn’t reach them. Red shot from the man’s stick, and a searing agony ripped through it, throwing it to the ground like nothing more than a dead goat. And then there were ropes everywhere, tangling around it like snakes and binding it so tightly that the ropes sawed through its pelt.

It couldn’t move. It couldn’t save its mate. It had failed in the one task it had in its life – to protect its precious mate. It howled its love and grief until all the men and women were screaming and clutching their heads.

The man with the stick pointed it at the Werewolf again, and everything went black.

* * * *

Granger must have some serious pull with St. Mungo’s. There were at least five Healers surrounding him. He stared up at them blearily. Most of them were too intent on their tasks to look at his face, but a couple of them did and smiled gently but anxiously at him.

“I can’t believe the fuckers cast an Unforgivable,” said a familiar voice, and he saw Fergus crouching beside him. “Alright there, Malfoy?”

“It wasn’t meant for me,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “It was meant for that monster that attacked us. Not that I want to protect any of those bastards, but I’d have cast an Unforgivable too if I saw a Werewolf lunging at me.”

Fergus smiled grimly. “Yeah,” he said. “I almost cast one myself. Pissed myself, I did, when the creature came at me. It’s one of the worst I’ve ever seen. But that’s why Aurors have special heavy-duty piss-vanishing spells. Pissing yourself is part of the job when you’re hunting Dark creatures.”

Draco tried to push himself up onto his elbows, but one of the Healers admonished him to stay still.

“Where is it?” Draco rasped. “Is it dead?”

Fergus shook his head. “ _Diffindo_ and _Incarcerous_ and then a stunner. I try not to kill Werewolves if I can help it. After all one of my best mates is one, as you know. He asked me to be as humane as possible when I catch them. But sometimes being ‘humane’ means a quick _Avada Kedavra_. Should’ve used one on that fellow, but Granger would’ve killed me.”

Draco tried to prop himself up again and again got pushed back to the ground, this time with an impolite profanity.

“Is she okay?” he asked. “The thing attacked her.”

“She’ll be alright,” Fergus said. “Broken bones but no serious internal injuries.” He glanced over his shoulder. “The odd thing is she’s hysterical and asking after the monster that nearly killed her. She’s hardcore, that one.”

Draco grimaced when he felt a needle pierce his skin. “She thinks it’s Harry,” he ground out. “She tried to convince me earlier when it attacked me in my bed.”

Fergus glanced over his shoulder again and shuddered. “There’s no bloody way that’s Harry,” he said. “I’d rather believe that Harry’s dead than imagine him as something that awful.”

Draco closed his eyes and tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. “That’s not Harry,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

“If you can be so sure, it sounds like you know something about where Harry might be.”

Draco smiled to himself at the memory of their night together. “He’s in Russia or some other one of those countries that end with ‘ia’.”

Fergus’s breath caught, and Draco opened his eyes. “Yes, he’s alive,” he said. “I saw him. He’s chosen to be a wolf for some reason, but I know it was him.” He smiled again. “Trust me.”

Fergus made a face. “That’s enough,” he said. “I don’t want to hear anymore.”

“Good,” Draco replied, “because I have no intention of telling you.”

“Thank God for small mercies.”

“Hey boss! You got the bastard! I’m impressed! Good job!”

Fergus stood and slapped the back of a man who, judging from the crimson robe, must be another Auror. 

“Thanks. Nearly pissed myself though,” Fergus said.

The man shrugged. “Just another day on the job, partner.”

They laughed.

“Your son’s safe and well, Lord Malfoy, and his vision has been restored,” the Auror said, looking down at Draco. “The kidnappers actually surrendered the moment they saw us and handed over Scorpius without needing to be asked. They’re obviously terrified out of their wits and don’t want to have anything to do with any of this anymore. They smelled like they needed our special _Scourgify_ as well. They have a couple of comrades who’d been attacked by that bloody menace,” he paused to look at the fallen Werewolf, “but they’re going to live. Barely, but they will. They’re bloody lucky. They’ll be even luckier if they can get their wounds cleaned before they’re Turned. Speaking for myself, I’d rather be dead than Turn into a Werewolf.”

Draco suddenly heard Granger call his name.

“Can I get up?” he asked one of the Healers.

The Healer looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah, right,” she said. “That’s going to happen. You came within a minute or two of dying, sir. You’re not going anywhere unless you’re being Levitated. Ms. Granger can come over here. Bones are a lot easier to heal than a ruptured liver.”

Draco turned his head and watched as Granger limped over to him, supported by an Auror on either side. She was crying.

“Are you going to be okay?” she asked in a small voice.

“Yeah, I think so,” Draco replied.

“I’m so so sorry,” she said, starting to cry again. “This is all my fault.”

Draco frowned at her. “Part of it certainly is,” he said. “But not all of it. You tried to warn me against publishing that stupid essay. I should’ve listened. It was a load of rubbish anyway. Sorry, but as far as I’m concerned, every Werewolf in the world except for Harry should be shot and skinned. And we can start with that one,” he added with a nod in the direction of the bound monster.

His words only made her cry harder.

“But I _told_ you,” she choked. “That _is_ Harry.”

Draco closed his eyes and shook his head. He knew that thing wasn’t Harry. He’d made love with Harry. Obviously he couldn’t tell her that, but he knew all the same.

“It’s not,” he said gently. “Trust me.”

She covered her face with her hands. “You’ll never accept it, will you?” she sobbed. “Harry is a _Werewolf_ , Draco! He’s not just a big sweetheart of a Crup. He’s a Dark creature. You can’t separate Harry from the rest of them. He’s no different! And that’s why we need to protect them . . .”

“Oh my God, Granger! Will you ever stop?” Fergus said. “Malfoy’s right. That thing cannot be Harry. Have you taken a look at it?”

“Yes, I have!” she shouted at him. “He got close enough to me to nearly crush my skull!”

“Right,” Fergus said. “So there’s one of the things we’re trying to tell you: under no circumstances would Harry try to crush anyone’s skull, let alone yours.”

Granger stared at him and shook her head. “None of you are going to believe me,” she said. She sounded defeated. “Not even you,” she added, looking again at Draco.

“Nope,” he said.

Granger hung her head. “What are you going to do with him?” she asked weakly.

“What we’re going to do with _it_ is take it to the Ministry to be registered,” Fergus replied.

“Yeah,” said another Auror. She made finger quotes in the air. “‘Registered.’ Registered by the crows.”

Draco felt his blood run cold.

“Don’t even think that,” he said angrily. “Just take the thing to the bloody regulators then lock it in a cage and throw away the key.”

“Can’t you just leave him here with me?” Granger asked in a tiny helpless voice. “I promise I won’t let him escape. He’ll be himself again once he sees that Draco and Scorpius are safe, and I don’t want him to find himself alone in some rusty old cage in some horrible cell.”

“Sure,” said the female Auror. “Why, of course. After all, you’ve proven yourself so wise and responsible when it comes to Werewolves.”

Granger glared daggers at her and then turned back to Fergus.

“You’re the Assistant Head Auror,” she said. “You have the authority. Please, Fergus. For Harry’s sake – even . . . even if you don’t believe that’s him. If he wakes up and is still dangerous then I swear I’ll give him to you. But he won’t be. I know that for a fact.”

Draco watched Fergus’s face go through at least a dozen expressions. He was clearly grappling with himself.

“Dear God!” Draco cried. “You can’t possibly be thinking about doing this! The both of you are stark raving mad!”

Fergus didn’t look at him. Instead he looked at Granger and then at the Werewolf and then back again at Granger.

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “But I’ll be coming to do an inspection tomorrow.”

Granger’s whole face shone with relief. “Thank you,” she said. She looked at Draco. “Do you want to stay with me too?”

Draco felt his eyes literally bug out of their sockets. “You’re joking.”

Granger’s mouth made a mournful shape, but she nodded. “Okay,” she said. “He’ll understand. I’m sure he’ll forgive you even though I’m sure he won’t forgive himself when I tell him what happened.”

Draco sighed wearily. He was exhausted and in pain and wanted nothing more than to see Scorpius and return home to his own bed. Staying with Granger at all had been a huge mistake.

“Will you at least think about coming to see him?”

Suddenly Draco wasn’t so weary anymore. He propped himself up on his elbows and withstood the effort of the Healers to push him back down. “If you say One. More. Time. that that sickening beast is Harry,” he said, “I will demand a duel, and I will win.”

Granger brushed tears from her eyes.

“And if he is Harry?”

Draco clenched his hands into fists.

“It’s not.”

“But if he is?”

Draco felt his own eyes tear up. “It can’t be,” he said. “That _can’t_ be Harry.”

“Why not?” Granger demanded. “Why can’t he be Harry?”

Draco blinked as tears rolled down his face. He wiped them away furiously.

“Because if that thing is Harry,” he said, “then Harry tried to kill me. And if he could kill me, then he could kill anyone and needs . . .” Draco brushed away more tears, “ . . . and needs to be registered . . . and exterminated.”

* * * *

Harry woke to find himself lying in front of a roaring fire on a pile of blankets. He ached all over. He could tell that he’d been wounded. There was an open gash on his shoulder. He tried to lick it, but he couldn’t twist into the right position. Something prevented him.

He looked and saw that he was wearing a metal collar with a gigantic chain attached. The realisation frightened him.

What had happened? Who wanted him restrained and why?

He looked around. The room had tiled walls, a tiled floor and a single large window with bars over it. There was neither furniture nor furnishing of any kind except for the stone fireplace. He looked closer at the chain and saw that it was attached to a huge wrought iron ring bolted to the wall. He moved his head, testing the chain’s strength and realised there was no way he could break it.

Where was he?

Despite the unfamiliar surroundings, he smelled a very familiar scent, and he howled. After a couple of seconds, he heard footsteps running up the stairs, but they stopped outside the massive door.

“Harry?”

Hermione’s voice sounded uncertain and even a little afraid.

He whimpered and tried to stand but the chain prevented him. He made a mournful sound. Something was definitely wrong if he could make Hermione sound scared.

Slowly, the door creaked open, and Harry yelped with alarm. Hermione was covered with bruises and her right arm was in a sling. She looked like she’d been crying.

“Can I come near you?” she asked timidly.

Harry nodded. She approached him very slowly. He could smell her fear.

What had he done?

When she got close to him, she held out her hand palm up as though she was approaching a rabid dog. Harry licked it tenderly.

“Harry,” she whispered and knelt down near enough that she could stroke his head. “It’s you. You’re back.”

Had he gone somewhere? He titled his head questioningly, but then he remembered. He’d been on a pirate ship in Dover’s port. He’d been headed for Finland, and from there he was going to make his way to Siberia. He remembered he didn’t want to go. But why?

Draco.

It all came surging back.

He’d been leaving to protect Draco – from the chance that he might get Draco sent to Azkaban . . . or worse.

He’d been right to go. Why the hell was he still in England?

He looked up into Hermione’s face and pleaded with her to tell him what was going on.

She looked away as if she was ashamed.

“It was all my fault,” she said. “Every last bit of it. I should never have published Draco’s essay in my newsletter . . .”

He started. The essay against the new anti-Werewolf law. Had something happened to Draco for writing it? He pawed at Hermione’s knee and whined. She closed her eyes and bit her lip.

God, no. He was right. Something did happen. He pawed at her knee again.

“A group of vigilantes kidnapped Scorpius . . .”

Harry couldn’t wait to hear the rest of the story. If Scorpius was in trouble then Draco would unleash the furies of hell to save him . . . and get himself killed in the process!

Harry tried to stand, but he couldn’t. He strained and tugged at the chain, but it didn’t give. He howled as a red curtain began to drop before his eyes. Hermione screamed and scrambled away from him.

“No! No! Harry!” she cried. “Stop, it’s okay! Draco is fine, and he’s back at his house! Scorpius is fine too, and he’s back at Hogwarts! Both of them are safe!”

The red film slowly disappeared, and Harry dropped back to the floor, exhausted, shaking and scared. What was wrong with him? He felt completely out of control.

Hermione ran her hand through her air. “That,” she said shakily. “That right there is how I really screwed up. When I heard about Scorpius, I didn’t stop to think and just went ahead and Owled you the news. It was _stupid_. I work with Werewolves. I know how they can be about their mates. I . . . I guess that I forgot for a moment that you’re one of them. You ran all the way here from Dover, Harry.”

Harry thought hard for a moment. Yes, he remembered running until his feet bled, thinking only of Draco. But everything was blank after that.

“When you got here, you were very upset and dangerous. I couldn’t even approach you. Draco had been . . . um, a teeny-weeny-tiny bit hurt . . .”

The red came back, and Harry growled, pulling at the chain until the metal collar began crushing his wide pipe. He didn’t care. He had to escape!

“But he’s better now!” Hermione cried. “I told you already! You need to try to get a hold of yourself, Harry. It’s this protective urge that’s ruining everything. You need to keep it in check. It turns you into a monster!”

Harry flinched as though Hermione had hexed him. He took several deep shuddering breaths, and the red went away again. He looked at Hermione and pleaded with her to go on.

“Draco was here and when you got here I stupidly didn’t tell him and then I told you to go to him and you were in your worst possible manifestation and you scared him half to death and he tried to hit you with a spell and then you crawled under his bed and he went mental because he thought you were a strange Werewolf and then he stormed out of the house and tried to Apparate.”

She spoke so fast that it was hard to catch all of her words, but Harry heard enough to know that Draco had tried to hurt him. He must’ve made Draco think he was about to die! His ears drooped, and he hung his head with shame. 

“And then everything got worse. Draco contacted Scorpius’s kidnappers and told them I had a Werewolf and that they could kill it in exchange for his son and then the kidnappers came and you ran out of the house and attacked them and one of them tried to _Crucio_ you but it . . . remember he’s fine now . . . but it hit Draco, and he was already injured and . . .”

Harry couldn’t stand it. The red haze filled his brain again. The mere thought of Draco being hurt – no matter how slightly or how long ago – was unbearable. And the fact that he’d been hit with an Unforgivable?! The urge to maim and kill filled his heart.

“Harry!” Hermione shouted. “Don’t make me stun you! Please, you’ve got to try to stop this. Can’t you see what’s happening? Your love is turning you into a menace! You’re not helping Draco – or yourself – by attacking people. You even attacked me!”

Harry was still enough in control that Hermione’s words literally knocked the breath out of him. He shook his head violently. There was _no_ way he’d ever hurt her. She was the most important person in his life after Draco. She’d taken care of him and loved him. She still was. He looked at her bruised face and began to howl in shame. The red was gone. Every ounce of rage was gone. She was right. He _had_ turned into a monster.

She reached out with her good arm and placed her hand on the side of his face.

“It’s okay,” she said gently. “You weren’t yourself. I know that – I even knew that at the time. I don’t hate you. I’m not even angry, well, I am angry but at myself, not at you. You couldn’t help it.”

He got as close as he could to her and began licking her bruised face. He’d do anything to change what’d happened.

“I’m okay,” she said again, giggling a little when he licked her ear. “And so is everyone, Harry. You attacked a couple of people, but they lived. You didn’t kill anyone. You were just very very upset and terrified for Draco.”

He stopped licking her face and placed his nose against hers. 

“You’re probably famished,” she said, scratching his ear. “I’ll go get you some supper.”

She sat back on her heels and smiled at him as though that was the end of the story. 

But when could he go to see Draco? He drew back and looked at her. He needed to see for himself that Draco was okay. Of course, he trusted her words, but hearing them wasn’t enough. He needed to _know_.

She blushed and looked away.

He reached out and pawed at her knee.

“When will you leave for Russia?” she asked with feigned cheerfulness. “You’ll want to get to Siberia before September.”

He pawed at her knee again, more insistently this time. He heard her swallow and saw her eyes glisten.

“The Aurors subdued you, Harry,” she said. “They wanted to take you to the Ministry to be registered. I pleaded with them to let me keep you. I don’t know how long this will go on. There’s no way they’ll let me keep you forever. And given that you . . . that you attacked a number of people, they’re going to want to put you in Azkaban. Maybe even execute you. No one believed me when I told them it was you.”

Nobody? What about Draco? From what Hermione was saying, it sounded like he was trying to protect Draco. Draco would protect him in return. Harry knew that. Even though Harry was in his wolf form, Draco had told him that he loved him, had let Harry make love to him.

He tilted his head at Hermione.

She looked away again, and she didn’t look back when she began again to speak.

“You terrified everyone, Harry. Even me, even Aurors whose whole careers involve dealing with Dark creatures. You were a . . . a killing machine. I think you were ready to kill everyone there who wasn’t Draco, even Scorpius . . .”

Harry howled again. It was the Greyback incident all over again, except _he’d_ been the monster this time, not Greyback.

“People think you’ll never be anything but dangerous, and you _will_ be if we don’t get your protective instincts under control.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I think,” she said. “I think you need to find a new mate. One of your own kind. You need to be with other Werewolves. I’m worried that if you try to stay a part of the human world that you’ll be killed. I couldn’t bear that.”

She turned back to him. As she’d been speaking, it sounded like she was crying again, but she hadn’t been. Her face was serious and stern and even a little cold.

“I’m going to let you escape,” she said with a familiar kind of finality. “I will face the consequences. But you must promise me that you will leave _immediately._ No going to see Draco.”

Harry just looked at her. Didn’t she understand that he could never promise not to see Draco? Especially not after what she’d just told him.

“Aurors will be here soon to inspect and determine what we should do from here. You have to be gone by then, and I think you should go while it’s still dark.”

She stood and tried to flatten her hair. Harry knew it was one of the gestures she made when she was thinking and didn’t like the ideas that came to her.

“I’m going to get your supper now,” she said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

Harry watched her leave and then shut the door and lock it. There’d been so much information to process that he wasn’t sure he understood everything. Other than saying he was okay, she hadn’t mentioned Draco at all . . . And about this escape and “facing the consequences” stuff – Harry didn’t like that at all. His friends did not “face consequences” because of him, especially not Hermione and especially not after what he’d done to her.

If she wanted him to escape, then escape he would, but it wasn’t going to be because she helped him. He wasn’t going to let her get in trouble.

He began to howl as loudly and wretchedly as he could, and, just as he’d predicted, Hermione came running up the stairs. She threw open the door.

“What is it?” she cried. “Are you alright?”

He shook his head and then pointed with his snout at the open wound on his shoulder.

She smacked her forehead. “Merlin, I’m an idiot,” she said. “I’m so sorry, Harry. I couldn’t get near you before because . . . well, you weren’t safe to be near. But that wound needs healing, and I don’t have the right potions. I’m going to Floo to St. Mungo’s right now and get them.”

He thumped his tail on the floor. She came over and petted him. He rubbed his head on her thigh. He knew this was the last time he’d see her for a very long time. She leaned down and kissed his nose.

“I’ll be right back,” she said and closed the door.

He waited until he heard the whoosh of the Floo, and then he started tugging and pulling with all his strength. At last he was able to wrench the iron ring from the wall.

He was free.

The window was barred, making it look like a prison door. Harry flung himself against it again and again, but all he could manage was to shatter the glass with the impact of his body. He whined in frustration and began pacing the room. He had to get out, and precious time was wasting away. His only option if Hermione came back was to attack her and render her unconscious so it would look like she’d tried to stop him from escaping through the door and nearly got herself killed in the process. Surely they wouldn’t arrest her under such circumstances.

But attacking his best friend – again – was the last thing he wanted to do. He flung himself against the bars hard enough to crack his ribs.

And then he remembered why he was in this whole situation to begin with. 

He was a Werewolf.

He’d never consciously tried to assume his Werewolf form, but obviously he’d been capable of doing it without a full moon. He thought of Hermione being locked up in Azkaban because he couldn’t protect her. He thought of Scorpius being kidnapped. And then he thought of Draco wounded, _Crucio_ ed, bleeding . . .

The room slowly grew red before his eyes, and the fire began to scream with a thousand demon voices. The sound of the wind outside the broken window was so loud that it made him howl with pain. His whole body felt like it was warping and contorting like soft wax and then freezing again in impossible shapes. He was racked by agony and a desperate urge to maim and slaughter.

He stood on his hind legs and seized the bars with hands that were so crooked and black that they looked like giant muscular spiders. He pulled the bars aside with as much effort as it would take a man to part the panels of a curtain.

It was a tight fit, but at last he managed to escape and leap to the ground. As soon as he reached the forest, he threw back his head in victory and howled at the blood-red moon.

* * * *

Draco lay on his back listening to the wind in the trees and watching the shadows of the branches move like skeletal dancers on the bedroom walls. The moon was almost full. His sheet was silver in its light.

He tried hard not to succumb to the fear that stalked his thoughts. He’d been mad to think he could be alone after the incident with the Werewolf. As soon as he’d been discharged from St. Mungo’s, he should’ve gone to London to stay with Astoria where there’d be light and voices and laughter. What had he been thinking? 

It’d been manageable during the day. His bedroom windows faced east and south, and he’d been surrounded by the soft sweet light of early April. He’d even got out of bed for a couple of hours and sat in the garden admiring his tulips and enjoying the warm breeze.

But then evening had crept out of the western hills, changing their colour from green to lavender. The breeze had grown chilly, and then the birds fell silent. He’d had tea surrounded by lanterns and dozens of candles and then bolted the door and gone to bed.

He was afraid to close his eyes but he was equally afraid to keep them open. He hadn’t felt this way since he’d had night terrors as a child. The pounding of his heart made it hard to breathe, and he was able to hear every little sound as though it was a thunderclap. He smelled his fear in the sweat soaking his t-shirt. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep.

He tried hard to think of Harry.

Where was he now? Had he found his way to wherever it was he was going? Was he safe and warm? Could he sense Draco thinking about him? Longing for him?

He must’ve dozed off because the howl that came from beneath his window wrenched him out of a dream.

He laid still, his body rigid with terror as the wolf howled again and again. At last he moved his hand just enough that he could grip his wand where he’d placed it on the pillow next to his. Slowly, he got out of bed and tip-toed to the window. In the moonlight, he saw the shape of a large wolf. It lifted its head to howl again, and the moonlight caught in its eyes.

They were green.

Draco ran out of his room and down the stairs ignoring the pain in his side. He flung the door open and called Harry’s name.

The wolf came trotting around the corner of the house dragging a massive chain that tore up the grass. There were sticks caught in it, and it was obviously extremely heavy because Harry was panting, and there was froth on his muzzle. He was covered with mud, his pelt sparkled with shards of broken glass, and one of his shoulders was slick with blood.

Draco reached out his hand, and Harry came to him and licked it tenderly.

“My God,” Draco whispered. “Why are you still here? And what the hell happened to you?”

Harry whined softly and licked his hand again.

“Did someone capture you and chain you up?” 

He seethed with anger and indignation on Harry’s behalf. How could someone chain up such a beautiful creature and treat him so cruelly? What the fuck was wrong with people? Didn’t they know what a _real_ Werewolf looked like?

“Come on,” Draco said. “There’s a fountain behind the house. Let’s get you free of that stupid chain and clean you up.”

Harry stood still under the cool falling water as Draco cast charms and spells at the iron collar around his neck. Just when he thought he’d have to go to the library to find a book on obscure locking spells, he cast a charm he’d learned in Flitwick’s honors class, and the latch released. The collar fell from Harry’s neck, and Draco vanished it. Then he cast several cleaning and healing spells, and before long, Harry’s pelt was soft and shining again.

“Love,” Draco murmured against Harry’s ear, “I don’t know why you’re here, and you probably shouldn’t be, but I’m so glad you are. Tell me you’ll stay tonight.”

Harry nodded and licked his face.

Draco led him back into the house and bolted the door again.

“How about we sleep in my bed this time?” he asked, and to his amusement, Harry eagerly nudged him toward the stairs.

Before getting into bed, Draco stripped off all of his clothes, and Harry immediately trotted over to him and began licking the thick pink scar on his side. When he stopped and looked up at Draco’s face, Draco was sure he could see Harry’s human eyes behind the wolf’s pleading with him to tell him he was okay. Draco smiled and caressed his face.

“I’m fine,” he said. “The Healers did an excellent job. I’m just a little sore from that bloody _Cruciatus_.”

Harry snarled, and the hair on his back bristled. Draco laughed.

“Remember the War, love,” he said. “I’m no fragile teacup.”

Harry nodded and then leapt up onto the bed when Draco patted the mattress. They lay facing each other, snuggled as close as they could get. Draco put his arms around Harry and kissed his nose. When Harry licked his mouth, he opened it and welcomed Harry’s tongue with his own.

Their love making was gentler this time because clearly Harry was worried about hurting him. Instead of mounting him, Harry lay on his side and Draco rolled over so that his back was pressed against Harry’s chest. They lay still for several minutes just breathing together, and then Draco felt the slippery heat of Harry’s cock and moved so that Harry could enter him. Harry licked his neck, as Draco struggled to accommodate his length and girth and then stayed still as Draco brought himself off. Only then did Harry begin thrusting and whimpered when he came. Afterwards, they stayed stuck together just enjoying the feeling of penetration.

Draco must’ve dozed off because he awoke to the sound of a woman’s voice screaming from the fireplace in the living room.

Granger. What the hell could she want at this hour?

Harry was fast asleep and still inside him, and it took Draco awhile to extricate himself from Harry’s tight embrace. He got up and pulled on his clothes and then tiptoed downstairs.

“Bloody hell,” he hissed when he got on his knees and looked at Granger’s face in the embers. “I was asleep. This had better be important.”

Even through the glow of the low-burning fire, he could tell she was crying.

“Is Harry with you?” she asked after taking a moment to get control of herself.

He was silent. He wasn’t at all sure he wanted to answer her question, but at last he nodded.

“You’ve got to get him to leave!!” Granger screamed, and he tried to shush her. He didn’t want Harry to wake up without him.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because the Aurors are on their way to your house! They gave me Veritaserum. They asked me where Harry was, and I . . . I told them he was probably with you. I couldn’t help it . . .”

She began to cry again.

“Draco, you have to get him to leave! They’ll kill him! They told me they would!”

“Why?” he asked. “He hasn’t done anything wrong . . .”

Granger suddenly went completely silent.

“Oh, God,” she said with appalled horror. “You don’t know, do you? You _still_ don’t believe me.”

He frowned. He was really starting to loathe this conversation.

“Know what?” he asked.

“That Harry’s the Werewolf who attacked everyone yesterday!”

He glared at her. “I told you to stop saying that!” he snapped. “That thing was not Harry!”

“It’s not a thing!” Hermione shouted at him. “It was Harry!”

He shook his head. He couldn’t believe Granger had got him out of his bed and pulled him away from Harry just for more of this nonsense.

“Granger,” he said, not trying to disguise the irritation in his voice. “Go to wherever it is that you supposedly locked that monster away, and you’ll see that it’s not Harry. Harry is here with me. In my bed if you want to know. I know my husband, Granger, and that creature that attacked me yesterday was _not_ him.”

“Draco!” Granger screamed at him. “Stop being so stupid and blind . . .”

He scowled at her and stood up. He was done with their conversation.

“. . . I wouldn’t be asking where Harry was if he was still with me! He escaped! He pulled the chain out of the wall and leapt from the window!”

Draco froze.

“What?” he asked weakly, suddenly horrified. “That thing escaped?” He got on his knees again. “Tell me that’s not what you’re saying, Granger!”

She looked like she wanted to strangle him to death.

“Did Harry have a collar and a chain when he came to you tonight?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Was he covered with glass? Was there a gash on his shoulder?”

Draco couldn’t answer her because suddenly he was choking and couldn’t breathe.

“Well?” she demanded. “Am I right?”

“Yesterday . . .” he said, gagging on his dawning realisation. “Yesterday, that thing attacked me. Harry would _never_ attack me.”

“He _didn’t_ attack you,” she said furiously. “He attacked the man who’d _Crucio_ ed you. All he did was leap over you. You’re right, Draco, Harry would _never_ attack you. You’re his mate. He loves you. He’d die protecting you. And that’s why you have to get him to leave! When the Aurors arrive, he’ll think they’re going to hurt you, and he _will_ turn into his Werewolf form, and he _will_ kill them. Even Fergus. And then he, too, will be killed!”

But Draco could only shake his head over and over again.

“You’re wrong,” he said. 

“You know I’m telling the truth.”

“You’re lying.”

“Act now,” she said. “Or have blood on your hands, including Harry’s. If you love him at all, tell him to flee!”

Draco rose to his feet and staggered backward until he could grab a table and hold himself up. He was going to vomit or scream – or both. He still couldn’t breathe. 

There was a knock at the door.

“Get him out!” Granger yelled at him, and then she withdrew her head from the embers.

“Aurors! Open up!”

It was Fergus’s voice.

But Draco couldn’t move, let alone answer. He couldn’t even think. His world was crashing down around him. He was faint and sick and on the verge of collapse.

“Malfoy! Are you alright in there?!”

He was going to crack and then crumble into a thousand pieces. Harry really _was_ a monster, a spawn of Hell’s deepest void.

“Damn it, Malfoy! Answer the bloody door or we’ll have to blast it in!”

There was the sound of several voices, and then Fergus spoke again.

“Cast to kill,” he shouted at his Aurors. “You have my permission – actually you have more than my permission, you have my _order_!”

There came a smashing sound as the front door was blown off its hinges.

Just then an enormous storm shadow surged down the stairs like a gust of black coal smoke, and suddenly the Werewolf was there in the living room, positioning itself between Draco and the front door. 

It was huge and misshapen, a grotesque mockery of both wolf and human forms. Its hair bristled like knitting needles, and bloody foam frothed at its jaws. The sounds it made were a cross between a death rattle and a banshee’s scream. It was standing on its back legs, and its claws sank into the wood floor as though it was nothing but butter, and its hands . . . its hands . . . Draco had never seen anything more terrifying in his life then those hands.

The first Auror who walked through the blasted door didn’t even have a chance to open his mouth, let alone cast a spell.

His wand flew into the air when the Werewolf attacked him and tore off his arm, and somehow through the haze that surrounded him, Draco caught it. He pointed it at the Werewolf at the same moment the hideous creature turned around.

Its eyes were Hellfire red and as large as saucers. They blinked when they saw Draco’s outstretched wand.

“Get out!” Draco screamed at it. “I don’t care if you’re Harry. I don’t bloody care! I don’t want you here! I don’t need your help! Get out! In God and Jesus’s names, leave this house and never come back!”

The creature blinked again, obviously confused.

“I’m not your mate!” Draco yelled. “I don’t want to be your mate! You’re an abomination in the eyes of God and nature. I want you to get out of my house and never come back! I WANT YOU TO GET OUT OF MY LIFE, HARRY!”

The thing began lumbering toward him, its arms with its terrible hands held out in front of it.

Draco was shaking all over, but he kept his wand trained on the monster’s heart as it approached.

“Why are you doing this?” he pleaded with it. “Please just go away!”

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. The Werewolf kept advancing, and Draco kept backing away from it. Soon he would collide with the wall and then what?

Could he kill it?

Could he kill Harry?

The slashing spell hit the Werewolf and tore through its haunch. The Werewolf screamed with rage and moved with such speed that it seemed like nothing more than a black cloud. It picked up the Auror who’d attacked it and threw him through a window.

Draco cried out in terror. The thing turned back to him. The blood that dripped from its wound left smoking holes in the carpet.

“I’ll cast the Killing Curse!” Draco shouted. “I swear to God I will!”

And he would. He was going to, but then a huge fireball struck the back of the Werewolf’s head. It began howling and clawing at itself, as the fireball exploded, showering the entire room with clumps of molten lava.

“Malfoy!” Fergus yelled. “For God’s sake, get out of there!”

Still pointing the wand at the Werewolf’s heart, Draco looked around frantically for the closest escape. The demon still remained between him and the front door, but to get to the back door in the kitchen, he’d have to leap over a pool of lava that was spreading ever wider on the smouldering carpet. It was too big. He couldn’t do it. He knew he couldn’t.

He was going to die.

He was drenched with sweat that kept dripping into his eyes, blinding him. All around him, his things were burning and melting and crumbling into embers. And the fiend – _Harry_ – was still stalking towards him.

“Leave me alone!” he yelled, choking on the smoke that was filling the room. He felt faint and sick to his stomach. He dropped to his knees.

“I hate you,” he gasped. “You’ve ruined my life. I wish you were dead. I wish _I_ was dead.”

The thing spoke.

“Son,” it snarled, and before Draco could respond, the Werewolf grabbed him, threw him over its shoulder, and leapt through the encroaching flames. Draco had one conscious moment of smoke-free air before he passed out. 

It tasted like cool spring moonlight. 

It tasted like a sweet distant memory of Harry’s kiss.

 

_December 21, 2013_

 

The Werewolf hunkered down in the snow, sinking into the bitter cold shadows near the bare-branched roses bushes. 

It was a clear night, and the full moon was so bright, she snuffed out the stars surrounding her. It was the Winter Solstice. The windows of the Big House were decorated with evergreens and candles. The boy’s Crup sensed the Werewolf’s presence. It looked out the glass doors and barked its head off. Soon the tall pale-haired man would wave his stick, and the Crup would be silenced.

The Werewolf settled even deeper into the shadows. It watched over the Big House every full moon night. There was a reason for this, but the Werewolf couldn’t recall it clearly. It just knew that its job was to watch . . . and protect.

It’d saved the beautiful pale-haired man’s life the night before April’s full moon. The man’s house was on fire, and the Werewolf saved him from burning to death. The man had been hurt though, and he’d had to spend a moon in a big building that smelled harshly of unnatural things. He’d worn cloth on his face and chest for a long time, but now the cloth was gone.

The Werewolf went back to gnawing on its deer carcass. It knew that once the boy and his Crup went upstairs room and blew out the candles, the tall beautiful pale-haired man would open the glass doors and stand still for a long time looking up at the moon. Maybe, the Werewolf thought, maybe the man loved the moon as much as it did.

It sat up, threw back its head and howled a love song to both of them – the moon and the man.

* * * *

Draco’s breath caught in his throat when he heard the unearthly sound coming from the rose garden. He heard it every night when the moon was full. It was not a wolf’s howl; it was a Werewolf’s, and he was sure it was Harry. In the mornings after he heard it, he’d find some kind of carcass on the Manor’s grounds – usually a deer but sometimes a cow or two. Once he’d even found a hippogriff. Its head had been severed from its body in what looked like a single bite.

Tonight the howling sounded very close, but perhaps that was just the cold air carrying it more clearly than usual. He tried not to shudder at the thought that the Werewolf might be right nearby.

In the beginning, when he’d first returned to the Manor after spending a month at St. Mungo’s recovering from burns he’d suffered the night of the Auror’s raid, the howling had filled him with a familiar terror and loathing. He’d often thought about contacting Fergus, but then he’d remember that he never again wanted to be involved in the hunt for Harry. Fergus would have to do it without him.

For that matter, he never wanted to be involved with Harry ever again in _any_ way. He wanted to be rid of all remnants of their life together once and for all. He wanted to look toward the future, not back at the past. 

But as time went on, the terror receded and an odd sense of peace took its place. It wasn’t that he’d grown any less afraid of the Werewolf, it was rather a kind of acceptance of an unasked for fate – like a crippling illness or the loss of a child. 

He felt that strange peace now as he listened to the Werewolf’s howls; it made him sleepy like a lullaby used to when he was a child. He’d almost killed Harry, but he hadn’t. And neither had Harry killed him. Instead, he’d awoke in St. Mungo’s with Scorpius at his side, clutching his hand, and Astoria smiling at him through her tears. He was later told that the Werewolf had carried him to Hogsmeade and placed him on the doorstep of the local Healer. There’d been deep gouges in the wood door, and people speculated that the Werewolf had clawed at it until the Healer woke up. The Healer later told Draco and Astoria that he’d seen the monster and tried to kill it, but it’d slipped into the moon shadows and vanished.

Draco accepted the information for what it was – proof that Harry had saved his life. As far as he was concerned, that was all of their accounts settled. They could be free of each other. Free to go their own ways and have their own lives . . .

. . . and Draco was trying to. He really was. He was teaching Runes part time at Hogwarts and dating a man he’d met through Astoria’s new fiancé’s family. He was spending as much time as he could with Scorpius, and he was always busy. It took him a long time, but he eventually fell asleep every night, and on most of those nights, he didn’t dream. 

Most of them.

It was the night of the Winter Solstice. He and Harry were married exactly two years ago this evening. Draco looked down at his bare hands. He still had the wedding band in a tiny box in his study. Every time he’d thought he was ready to vanish it, he’d been unable to cast _Evanesco_. The marriage nullification documents had all been completed and filed – he and Harry were no longer legally married, but he still couldn’t get rid of Harry’s ring . . .

. . . but maybe he didn’t have to “get rid of it” – maybe he could just give it back.

Draco shook himself from his stupor. That was it. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? It was so simple!

Before fear and sanity could paralyze him, Draco ran to his study and got the ring, and then he pulled on his fur-lined boots and his warmest cloak. He told a house-elf to keep an eye on Scorpius and tell him if he woke that he was not to worry and that his father would be back soon.

The night was bitterly cold, and his breath smoked like a dragon’s. He shoved his gloved hands into his pockets and tucked his chin inside his mink collar. The snow squeaked under his feet, making it difficult to hear the Werewolf howling. He had to stop now and then to get his bearings. The trees were black against the silver snow and indigo sky. The shadow he cast was long and thin.

The Werewolf must’ve sensed his approach because it fell abruptly silent. The wind clattered through the branches. Draco kept walking in the direction he’d chosen. His breathing sounded harsh in his ears and his heart was pounding, but he’d decided not to draw his wand. This was going to be a peaceful encounter. He needed it to be.

He saw the Werewolf’s eyes before he saw the rest of it. They were just as he remembered them in his nightmares – huge and red and unblinking. Next he saw the creature’s teeth. The moon turned them into glowing icicles, nearly half-a-foot long. Its pelt was so black that it swallowed all light, even the moon’s, and its reeking breath obscured its face with every exhale.

They both stood still, staring at each for a very long time. Draco was so terrified that it took a long time for him to dredge up the courage to break the silence. 

“Harry,” he said at last. 

He’d expected some kind of acknowledgement, but there was none. The beautiful wolf had come to him when he called, but the Werewolf did not. Draco didn’t know if that was because it didn’t want to or because it didn’t recognise its human name.

“I came here because I want to give you something,” he said in a voice that was much stronger and surer than he felt.

The Werewolf merely looked at him, but it didn’t seem hostile. Draco took a tentative step towards it.

“Give me . . .” Draco paused. He hadn’t thought this through very well. The Werewolf didn’t have any pockets. There was only one way it could keep the ring and not lose it. 

“Give me your hand,” he said.

God, how he hated those hands! The round red eyes were horrible, but the Werewolf’s hands were something straight out of Satan’s bag of nightmares. The fingers were more than five inches long and crooked like things that had been broken and then pieced back together all wrong. Of all the things about the Werewolf that Draco hated, he hated its hands the most.

The Werewolf stayed where it was, but it reached out its terrible hand. Draco couldn’t help but notice it was the left one. He took off his gloves and reached into his pocket to get the ring. His hand shook so badly that he dropped it in the snow twice and had to retrieve it.

“I don’t know if you remember,” he said, his voice quavering with fear. “We were married exactly two years ago tonight.”

He reached out and, after a moment of dread, took the Werewolf’s hand as he’d taken Harry’s hand the night of their wedding. He’d kissed Harry’s knuckles, but he was sure as hell not going to kiss the Werewolf’s.

To his surprise, the hand was warm, and the short black hair covering the fingers was soft. He held it for a moment, feeling the pulse of a beating heart, and as he held it, his horror and revulsion faded just a little tiny bit.

He slipped the ring on the Werewolf’s third finger. The moon kissed the platinum with a cold silver fire.

“You were so handsome that night,” he told the Werewolf. “I couldn’t believe how lucky I was that I was going to get to spend the rest of my life with you.”

He flinched and almost snatched his hand back when the crooked fingers laced with his. Although it took every ounce of courage he had, he did not let go.

“For a long time I regretted marrying you,” he said after taking a deep calming breath. “I even regretted falling in love with you at all.”

The Werewolf looked at the ring and then at Draco’s face.

“But I don’t anymore,” he continued. “It was the happiest time of my life.”

He stood still for awhile, trying his hardest to snuff out his revulsion and loathing. It worked but only up to a point.

“I don’t know what happiness means for you,” he said. “But whatever it is, I hope you find it.”

He pulled his hand from the Werewolf’s grasp. It continued to stare at him with its unblinking saucer eyes. Draco stood gazing back it for a long time, and then he turned and began the walk back to the Manor.

* * * *

Harry woke with the usual cuts and bruises and a strange silver ring on his finger.

The moon had just set, and there was a hint of orange and lavender touching the snow through the trees. He was naked and cold.

He leaned on his hands and pushed himself up. He needed to find his clothes as soon as possible or he’d freeze to death. He looked around for the Werewolf’s footprints and noticed they weren’t the only footprints in the clearing. There were also human footprints, and judging from their size, they must’ve been made by a man.

Harry panicked. Had he killed someone last night? He staggered to his feet and looked around frantically. When he saw blood and bones, he ran to them and then almost wept with relief when he saw they’d once belonged to a deer.

He looked down at his hand and the ring on his finger. He remembered, as though through a century of moons, a trembling hand holding his.

Draco. It must’ve been Draco. Those must be Draco’s footprints. 

And the ring . . . he’d given Draco that ring on their wedding night.

There’d be time to think about all of that later, but at the moment he was on the verge of dying from hypothermia.

He found his clothes, warmed them with a charm and put them on. It was cold – the kind of cold that foretold snow. He pulled on his socks and boots and started walking in the direction of the village. 

He’d been living there for several months in an attic room in the cottage of an old witch named Miss Margery Plumwort. She hadn’t recognised him when he came to the door to inquire about her “room for lease” sign, and she rarely spoke to him on the few occasions he encountered her in the small but tidy kitchen. When they did meet, she was always friendly but also rather bewildered. She often asked him who he was, and he’d have to remind her that he was her boarder. The information never seemed to enlighten her, but neither did it alarm her. She was the only human contact he had, and he’d grown rather fond of her. He always made sure to leave her a package of chocolate biscuits with his rent money and sometimes, when he could find them, a bouquet of fresh flowers. He liked to watch her meticulously arrange them in the blue vase on the kitchen table.

He’d been living in Miss Plumwort’s attic since he’d abandoned his wolf form. He hadn’t wanted to abandon it, but it was too painful to maintain. He’d made love to Draco when he was a wolf, and his body never stopped humming with the memory. It was as though Draco’s every movement and cry had seeped into his muscles and the bones beneath them. It was agony for the black wolf to stay away. Its instincts craved its mate with an unceasing hunger that’d tormented him. The choice had grown increasingly stark: change back into his human form or remain a wolf and eventually track Draco down and take him unwillingly. The latter was not an option Harry would ever consider even for a second.

He spent the daytime sleeping and the night time wandering the village and the surrounding countryside. It couldn’t go on forever – when the spring came, he’d go to Siberia, but for the time being he still couldn’t leave Draco, even if he’d stopped lurking around the Manor and now only went there as a Werewolf. It was stupid to go more often. Draco had a lover. Harry had watched them have sex and listened to Draco moan as he climaxed. It’d made Harry mad with lust and loss.

He’d noticed, however, that Draco never invited his lover to the Manor on nights when the moon was full. Ironically, Harry began to think of those full moon nights as “theirs.”

At last he reached the first house on the outskirts of the village. He was almost “home.” He’d have a cup of tea, take a bath, and then go to bed. He was always exhausted after his Transformations. At the shop, he stopped to buy some bread, milk and marmalade. He took off his gloves to pay the woman behind the counter and didn’t bother to put them back on again. 

He was inserting his key into the lock on Miss Plumwort’s door, when he noticed it again.

The silver ring.

He slipped it off his finger and held it in his palm for a moment. The warmth it had absorbed from his skin soon faded, and it became as cold and inert as the stones beneath his boots.

He hated it. And he hated Draco for giving it back to him when he hadn’t had the ability to refuse it. Because he would have. A wedding ring was the kind of gift that, if you wanted it gone, you vanished it. You didn’t give it back. He’d given the ring to Draco as a symbol of himself, of his heart and body and soul – of his lifelong promise to love and cherish and protect. You don’t give someone back his self. Love doesn’t work like that. At least not the kind of love he’d felt for Draco.

The walk back to the Manor felt much shorter than the walk away had been. He was angry, and the blood was coursing through his veins hot and wild. He could feel the first snow flakes melt on his burning cheeks. By the time he reached the Manor’s open gates, his hair was drenched and clung to his face. He stopped, his hands clenched in fists in his pockets. He was ready for anything, even a confrontation with Draco’s lover, but he hadn’t expected the Crup . . .

The Crup ran down the drive barking crazily. When it got close to Harry, it came to such an abrupt stop that it skidded through the gates on its backside and crashed into Harry’s shins. It scrambled up and began barking and growling as though it’d discovered Satan standing on its doorstep. The hair on its back bristled, and it bared its teeth. Harry couldn’t help himself and laughed out loud.

“You’re very scary,” he told it with feigned seriousness.

The Crup sat back on its haunches and began to howl a silly high-pitched howl, which only made Harry laugh harder. He squatted to pet it, but it backed away, snarling and flattening its ears against its head. Its eyes were white with fear.

“Stop terrifying my Crup,” said a voice.

Harry’s head snapped up when he realised it was Draco who was standing over him with his arms crossed. His face was without emotion. It was an expression Harry recognised. It meant that Draco had no idea what to expect from the situation he’d been presented with and was ready to assume a smile or a sneer as needed.

He hadn’t expected to encounter Draco like this. He’d envisioned knocking on the door and having it be answered by a house-elf who’d then announce his presence to Draco in his study or his dining room or wherever the hell he was in his ridiculously gigantic house at the moment.

“Hi,” he said awkwardly. “Sorry.”

He stood and brushed the snow from his gloves onto his coat. He was having trouble seeing through the fogged lenses of his glasses.

“What are you doing here?” Draco asked.

Harry merely shrugged. His mouth was too dry to speak.

“Just in the neighbourhood? Thought you’d stop in for some tea and a chat? Or perhaps a raw steak?”

Harry swallowed. He hadn’t known what an encounter with Draco in his human form would be like, but he hadn’t anticipated such coldness. He felt so stupid that he wished he could simply vanish. He’d go back to his attic room, pack a bag, put on a Glamour, flee to the nearest port and head straight to Siberia, wintertime or not.

Why was he doing this?

“I just . . . I just wanted to return this,” Harry said, his voice breaking. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wedding band. When Draco didn’t hold out his hand to receive it, Harry dropped it on the ground between them.

“I gave it to you,” he said. “I don’t want it back.”

He turned and began walking away. His heart felt too numb to continue beating.

“I don’t want it,” Draco shouted after him.

Harry wheeled around. “Then vanish it!” he yelled. “That’s what _Evanesco_ was invented for! Or give it to what’s-his-name. I don’t care; just don’t give it to me!”

He turned and began walking again.

So that was that.

He found himself wishing he could turn into his Werewolf form and tear the whole world to shreds, but apparently he could only turn into a Werewolf without the full moon if he wanted to protect, not destroy.

The irony.

When he reached the lane, he didn’t look back. He just kept walking. The only sound that followed him was the Crup’s bark. 

It sensed that something was wrong with him. It sensed that he wasn’t right and never would be.

* * * *

He hadn’t seen Harry – the _real_ in-the-flesh Harry – in almost two years.

Nor had he heard his voice.

Draco watched him disappear through the gates, his red scarf blowing in the wind, and then stared at the ring in the snow.

Harry’s cheeks had been full of colour in the way they’d always been when he was angry or aroused. His dark hair had been clinging to his face, and there’d been droplets of water on his glasses. The lenses had fogged up when he’d started yelling.

He’d been so . . . _human_. So wonderfully terrifyingly human.

Draco stooped and picked up the ring. It still held a hint of warmth from Harry’s pocket. He put it in his own pocket and walked back to the Manor with its windows full of white candles and evergreens. He could hear the fairies in the conifers singing “Deck the Halls” and the male peacocks, charmed red, green and gold for the holidays, calling to the peahens. 

There’d be no more howling from the forest on full moon nights. He was sure of that. He’d finally driven Harry out of his life once and for all.

Had Harry’s voice been that rich before? His accent so awful? Had his mouth always been shaped like that? Had his eyes been that green? His lashes that thick and black?

Had he always been that temperamental? That fiery? 

That beautiful?

Scorpius was on a fire call with a friend when Draco walked through the door and closed it on a gust of snowy wind. He pulled off his cloak and gave it to a house-elf. Scorpius chattered away about who’d be coming to his Christmas party while the Crup tugged on the sleeve of his pyjamas wanting to play. The air was full of the scent of baking and the stargazer lilies that the house-elves had filled every room with at Draco’s request.

His face felt hot as though he had a fever. He either wanted to lie down or run for miles; he couldn’t decide.

Octavius would arrive soon and want Draco to go back to bed with him before Astoria and her fiancé arrived for brunch. He loved having Draco ride him with the morning sun shining through the windows behind Draco’s back, and he called Draco “baby” when he came.

But the sun wasn’t out today.

“Master Draco looks unwell,” a house-elf said. “Can Crinkly fetch Master Draco a cup of tea?”

Draco shook his head. “I’m alright,” he said vaguely, although he certainly didn’t _feel_ alright.

He’d been so cold to Harry. He’d even mentioned “raw steak” for God’s sake! After all this time, was he still angry that Harry had allowed Draco to marry him without telling him he was a Werewolf? Or was it something else?

Was it the realisation that, after all of the damage he’d done, he wanted Harry back? His life was so normal and would be forever from here on out – free now of the Werewolf and the black wolf with green eyes that’d relentlessly stalked his dreams.

He felt so empty. So broken. So lost.

“Dad, can Willard come to brunch?” Scorpius asked while chewing on what was probably his one hundredth sugar quill. The Crup dropped the red ball at his feet and looked up at him expectantly. Scorpius kicked it down the hallway, and the Crup ran after it with puppy-like enthusiasm.

Draco merely nodded at his son. He felt dazed like someone who’d opened a present to find exactly what he’d asked for and realised, now that he had it, he didn’t want it after all. He felt ungrateful towards God and His merciful deliverance from evil.

Harry had looked as beautiful as he always had, and Draco wanted him so much. _So fucking much_.

When Octavius arrived, Draco turned his face away from his kiss and shrugged off his embrace. The only person whose arms he wanted to be in was Harry.

He couldn’t stay there. He couldn’t sit down in his fancy brocaded chair to cold salmon with dill and poached eggs with hollandaise sauce. He couldn’t chat about London’s social scene or the upcoming Christmas ball. He couldn’t ask Willard about his parents or kiss Octavius’s cheek when he took his seat beside him.

When Octavius asked what was wrong and tried to embrace him again, Draco struggled to get away. He felt light-headed and ill. Then Astoria and her fiancé were there, and everyone was suggesting he lie down on the sofa in the drawing room. Octavius called for a house-elf to bring a glass and a pitcher of ice water.

But instead of going to the drawing room, Draco _Accio_ ed his coat and ran to the door. He was going to suffocate if he couldn’t get a breath of fresh air. Astoria came running after him and grabbed his arm.

“We passed him on the lane,” she whispered urgently in his ear. “He’s headed for the village. You should probably Apparate. It didn’t look like he’d be staying around for long.”

He hugged her tightly and kissed her cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered. “ _Thank you_.”

“What should I say when you don’t come back?” she asked.

Draco laughed giddily, knowing he sounded half mad.

“Tell them I went to grandmother’s house,” he said. “To meet the big bad wolf.”

Astoria smiled and squeezed his hand. “Good luck, little red riding hood,” she said and then closed the door, leaving him alone in the fast falling snow.

* * * *

Harry was just turning the corner onto the lane that led to Miss Plumwort’s cottage when he saw her in her garden wrapped in a tattered shawl with Draco standing in front of her, gesturing wildly and obviously having a hard time making himself understood.

“Harry!” Draco shouted. “Harry Potter! Have you seen him?”

“Harry Potter!” Miss Plumwort exclaimed. “The Boy Who Lived? Of course I haven’t seen him, young man. I think I’d have known if I had.”

Harry had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. He’d been living under her very roof for months!

“He’s as tall as me, dark hair, glasses with round lenses . . .”

Miss Plumwort waved her hand as though Draco’s words were annoying gnats. “I know what Harry Potter looks like,” she said indignantly. “And I can assure you that I haven’t seen him.”

She was starting to look flustered and was obviously alarmed by Draco’s urgency. Harry had to rescue her. He coughed pointedly, and both of them turned to look at him.

“Oh my!” Miss Plumwort cried. “Merlin’s beard! There’s Harry Potter right now! My, this is quite a day! I should call my boarder and let him know that Harry Potter’s in my garden.”

Harry reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder, but before he could stop her, she took his hand in both of hers and kissed it as though he was the bloody pope. 

“They said you were dead,” she said with tears in her eyes. “Praise God.”

Harry blushed. “Er,” he said. “Miss Plumwort, I _am_ your boarder.”

But it was far too much information, and she looked like she might faint. He and Draco took her arms, led her inside and sat her down on her lumpy old sofa. Dust puffed into the air making all three of them sneeze.

Harry went to the kitchen. “I’ll make some tea,” he called to Draco who was still sneezing. “Why don’t you get a fire started? The coal’s in the brass bin near the clay gnome with the flowerpot on its head.”

It took several cups of tea and even more sandwiches, but eventually Miss Plumwort regained her composure.

“My,” she said, looking at one of them and then the other and then back again. “To think that Harry Potter has been living in my house! Heavens!”

“Another sandwich, Miss Plumwort?” Draco asked.

She turned to look at him with a bewildered expression. “Who are you?” she asked. She’d asked Draco the same question nearly a dozen times already.

“Clearly, I don’t make much of an impression,” Draco said, and Harry couldn’t help but smile.

“Clearly not,” he said.

Miss Plumwort turned her head when she heard his voice, and the same perplexed expression crossed her face again.

“Do I know you?” she asked Harry, and he boggled at her.

“Well, clearly neither do you,” Draco said, grinning. “Mr. Harry Potter.”

Harry’s breath caught in his chest. Draco’s smile had always made his knees feel weak. But then he remembered their earlier exchange and Draco’s emotionless expression.

“I don’t mind,” he said coldly. “It’s nice to be so unremarkable that people – and Crups – don’t notice me.”

Draco looked at him, his eyes suddenly serious. “I can imagine,” he said, his voice soft and earnest.

They remained quiet, just looking at each other, until Miss Plumwort let out a loud snore, and both of them jumped.

“Well, uhm, I . . . I should maybe get back to the Manor . . .” Draco said, standing up and putting on his coat.

“I have a room upstairs,” Harry blurted out. He didn’t know exactly what to think about the whole situation, but he knew he didn’t want Draco to leave just yet.

Draco didn’t say anything, and Harry thought he still might leave, but then he nodded.

“Lead the way,” he whispered.

The boards creaked as they ascended the narrow staircase, and Miss Plumwort’s orange cat screeched and hissed at Harry as it always did, but if Draco noticed he didn’t let on. The door to Harry’s room was stuck from the damp winter weather, and he had to shove it open with his hip. He stood aside and let Draco precede him.

Standing was uncomfortable. The ceiling was too low, and they both had to bend over. The situation was even more awkward given the fact that the only piece of furniture in the room was the bed. After an unbearable minute or two, Draco looked at the bed meaningfully. Neither of them said anything, but they moved at the same time to take off their coats and boots and socks. Draco also pulled off his jumper, so Harry did too.

They approached the bed on opposite sides. Harry hadn’t bothered to make it, and there were a couple of t-shirts and a pair of jeans lying amidst the sheets and blankets. He grabbed them and threw them in a corner. He and Draco stood across from each other with the bed between them obviously waiting for the other to make the first move. At last, Harry decided it was going to have to be him, and he lay down on his side, facing the middle of the bed. Draco did the same, and then they both spent several agonizing seconds trying to figure out what to do with their hands.

“Nice room,” Draco said.

“It was cheap,” Harry replied.

There was a long awkward silence

Eventually, Draco spoke. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess I didn’t think it through. It must . . . it must’ve been strange to wake up after a Transformation and find a wedding band on your finger.”

Harry had closed his eyes – he was so exhausted, but he opened them when he heard Draco’s words. 

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was rough with weariness. “It was.”

“Is it hard?” Draco asked.

Harry frowned. “Is what hard?”

“Transformation.”

“It’s got easier,” he replied cautiously. “Now that I know what to expect.” 

He didn’t want to talk about being a Werewolf. He wasn’t sure if he even wanted to talk at all.

Draco reached out tentatively and touched a bruise on his forehead, right next to his scar. Harry closed his eyes again. 

“You got this last night,” Draco said, not asking for confirmation that he was right.

“Why are you here?” Harry asked, his voice curt and snappish. “I thought you want to get rid of me.”

Draco traced Voldemort’s ragged lightning bolt with the tip of his finger.

“I thought I did too,” he said. “I’m not so sure now . . . now that I’ve seen you again.”

“I’m still a Werewolf,” Harry said. “I’m still a monster – I’m still a . . . what is it again?”

“An abomination,” Draco replied.

“Right. That.”

Draco was quiet for a long time, and Harry felt his heart break. He’d been through this so many times. Draco pulling him close and then remembering what he was and pushing him away again.

“I know,” Draco said at last. “I know you’re a Werewolf.”

“And I always will be.”

“I know.”

Neither of them seemed to know what to say after that. 

It took awhile, but eventually, Harry gathered up the strength to tell Draco that he couldn’t do this and that Draco had to leave, but when he started to speak, Draco stopped tracing his scar and pressed his fingertip against Harry’s mouth.

“Ssshhhh,” he said. “Not yet.” 

Draco traced his lips, making him shiver. His pupils were large and dark, causing the grey to look as though it was being eclipsed like the sun is eclipsed by the moon.

“I can’t do . . .” Harry started to say, but Draco shushed him again.

He wanted Draco so much – so much that he ached with wanting. But Draco wasn’t his and hadn’t been for a long time.

“You love someone else,” Harry said in a choked whisper. “How do you expect me . . .”

“Not like I love you,” Draco interrupted him. “Not even close.”

“Then prove it!” Harry said. “Prove it, Draco. I’m an abomination. Kiss me!”

He barely got out the last word before Draco reached out and grabbed both of his wrists. He rolled over until Harry was on his back and then pinned them both above Harry’s head. Then he paused and looked down into Harry’s face.

“You’re ugly when you’re a Werewolf,” he said. His voice sounded frank and matter-of-fact as though he was telling Harry that the sky was blue.

Harry swallowed. 

“You’re scary and hideous, and you stink like carrion. You look like something that crawled out of the darkest nightmare.”

Harry looked up into his eyes, trying to read Draco’s thoughts. He was not at all sure where this was headed. 

Then Draco leaned down and kissed him with such tenderness that Harry’s breath caught and he almost started to cry. When, after several moments, Draco pulled away, Harry lifted his head and tried to catch the kiss again. It had been like water to a man dying of thirst. But Draco still held his wrists pinned against his pillow.

“But I don’t care,” Draco said, and Harry knew instinctively that Draco was talking to himself, not to him. 

He leaned down and kissed Harry again, except this time he wasn’t tender. He forced Harry’s mouth open with his and hungrily sought his tongue. Harry kissed him back for a moment and then turned his face away.

“I killed a deer last night,” he said. “I tore its throat open and drank its blood, and then I ate all of it, including its shit-filled guts.”

Draco leaned down and kissed him again, pushing his tongue as far into Harry’s mouth as he could. 

“I don’t care,” he said when he pulled back. He rolled on top of Harry until he covered him completely. When Harry spread his legs and bent his knees, he felt Draco’s hard cock through Draco’s trousers and his jeans.

“I could kill a person,” Harry gasped. “I almost have in the past, and I may do so in the future. When I’m a Werewolf, I crave death like I crave you right now.”

“I don’t care,” Draco hissed. “That’s why doors and locks exist.” 

He began thrusting his hips as though he was already inside Harry and fucking him hard. Harry threw his head back, and Draco kissed his throat.

“People want to kill me and stick my head on a spike,” Harry said. He was having trouble catching his breath.

“Let them fucking try,” Draco replied. He grazed Harry’s ear with his teeth making Harry shiver uncontrollably.

“I make grown men piss themselves like babies,” he gasped.

“That’s what cleaning spells are for.”

“I . . .”

“Shut up.”

Draco sought out Harry’s mouth again, and they kissed like they used to, moaning each other’s name. Draco was still thrusting between his legs, but he was starting to lose his rhythm. 

“I need to come,” he whispered against Harry’s ear, “but I don’t want to come like this. I want to fuck you. I want to fuck the monster in you. I want to come inside it and fill it.”

He rose to his knees and tore open Harry’s shirt and then leaned down to suck on each of his nipples until they were so sensitive that Harry had to push him away. Then the two of them took off Harry’s jeans. Draco yanked his belt undone, opened his trousers and pushed them down to the middle of his thighs. He spat into his hand and stroked his cock until precome seeped out. He used it to prepare Harry for his first thrust.

It hurt like hell, and Harry’s back arched off the bed. Draco had never fucked him before. In fact, _nobody_ had ever fucked him before. He felt something deep and primal react to the pain, and he snarled.

“That’s right,” Draco said, and slammed into him even harder and deeper making Harry bare his teeth.

“I know it’s in you,” Draco hissed. “I can _feel_ it.”

Harry struggled to escape the relentless assault, but Draco had pinned his wrists beside his head again.

“You don’t scare me,” Draco gasped. “You don’t . . .”

But he couldn’t finish his thought. He cried out and started coming, and his semen slicked Harry’s passage until Draco’s continuing involuntary thrusts stopped hurting so much.

“Come on,” Draco gasped. “Come on, Harry.”

Whatever the dark primal thing inside of him was – whether it was the Werewolf or the wolf or himself or all of the above – it burst free of its cage and filled him completely. He shook violently. Man monster beast.

“Come on,” Draco shouted at him.

It was like a Transformation only he felt racked by pleasure as well as pain. He lifted his hips off the bed, trying to take Draco deeper, as deep as he could. He threw back his head and squeezed his eyes shut, surrendering, accepting, forgiving.

He felt his come leave him, carrying the monster with it like a raging river flooding its banks. He cried out, and the sound was only half human. Draco slammed into him one last time and then collapsed against his chest. They found each other’s mouths, kissing frantically at first and then less frantically until the kiss was sweet and slow and deep.

“I want you,” Draco murmured breathlessly against his ear. “All of you. Even the ugliness, even the part of you that scares the shit out of me. When I hear you howl at the moon as a Werewolf, I want to know that you’ll be coming home to me as a man.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and clutched the back of Draco’s shirt in fistfuls, holding on. He was still shaking, and Draco was still inside of him.

“It’ll never change,” he whispered. “I’ll never be okay. Don’t tell me that you want me – that you _love_ me – if you can’t face the truth.”

“If I feel myself unable to face the truth, I’ll make myself face it,” Draco said. “I know it’s not the answer you want to hear. You need to decide if you can live with that. It’s the best I can do.”

Draco’s words weren’t comforting, but the way he pulled Harry close was.

Could he live with knowing that all Draco could do was to _try_ not to be horrified and disgusted by him?

“I guess I’m not sure about whether I can live with that, but I’ll try,” he said.

Draco nodded. “Then we’ll both be doing the same thing – trying.”

“It’s better than not trying,” Harry said, realising the moment he’d said it that it was true.

“Let’s start right now,” Draco said, smiling mischievously. “Ride me.”

Draco pushed himself up off the bed, and stripped off his shirt and trousers. He lay down again on his back. His cock was already hard again.

Harry had never done this before, and he felt a bit silly as he straddled Draco’s hips as though Draco was a horse. Draco gazed up at his face, and as Harry put his cock inside him and sank down on it, Draco squeezed his eyes shut and threw his head back, baring his throat. Harry didn’t know if it was an offering of trust, but he decided to treat it that way. He leaned forward, bracing himself with his arms, and covered Draco’s throat with delicate tender kisses.

If Draco needed proof he could be gentle, Harry would give it to him.

Draco opened his eyes again, and put his hands on either side of Harry’s hips, guiding Harry’s movements.

“Touch yourself,” he said, and Harry wrapped his fingers around his own cock and set a fast rhythm, focusing mostly on the sensitive head and using his foreskin to keep it slick.

Draco stared at his hand and swallowed. Was he remembering the black wolf’s cock? How red and slippery it was? He was close now. Harry could tell.

“Harry,” Draco gasped, his voice sounded helpless. Harry began to meet his upward thrusts by pressing down sharply. Draco’s hands gripped his hips tighter and tighter. He was going to come, but he never took his eyes away from Harry’s. Not even when he fell over the edge of his climax.

Watching Draco’s pleasure pushed Harry over his own edge, and he came into his hand, milking his cock through its final weak spurt. Draco reached up and took Harry’s wet hand and laced their fingers together.

Only then did Harry remember the sound he’d made when he came. Unlike the previous time, there were no hints of the supernatural in his voice. His cries had been all human. They’d been all him. He hoped Draco had noticed.

He hoped he’d noticed and that he wouldn’t forget.

* * * *

Harry groaned as he dismounted and flopped onto his back.

“You look like you’ve been charged by a hippogriff,” Draco said, rolling back on top of him.

“You’d be the expert on that,” Harry said breathlessly.

Draco laughed and buried his face in the nook between Harry’s neck and shoulder. Harry’s hair smelled of moonlight and snow. He ran his hands up Harry’s sides, feeling each rib, and then past his armpits with their dark damp hair and up his arms until their fingers laced together.

He forced himself to remember the Werewolf’s terrible hands. He shuddered with revulsion but he didn’t let go. He held on tight. Harry’s eyes were summer moss-green and not entirely human. Draco forced himself to think of the red saucers in a midnight black face.

He shuddered again, but he didn’t look away.

“I want you to spend Christmas with me,” he said. “I’ll figure out how to stop the Crup from growling at you, although a good old fashion silencing spell might make the most sense.”

Harry smiled up at him, and Draco forced himself to recall the six-inch bone-white fangs protruding from jaws bristling with hoary whiskers.

He shuddered and closed his eyes.

He felt Harry’s body tense beneath him.

“You’re thinking about it,” Harry said. “Aren’t you?”

“It won’t go away immediately,” Draco replied. “You can’t expect it to.” He opened his eyes and looked straight and unblinking into Harry’s.

Harry struggled to get away, but Draco used all his weight to keep him pressed against the mattress.

“But I’ll keep trying,” he said. “I promise.”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and Draco watched tears bead in his dark lashes.

“I’ve been so lonely,” Harry said. “Don’t make vows you can’t keep. Don’t offer me a home and then yank it away from me.”

Draco leaned down and kissed him, forcing himself to remember the Werewolf’s breath reeking of rotting meat.

Harry’s mouth tasted like . . . well, like Harry’s mouth had always tasted. It was a taste Draco had always craved and still did.

He felt his cock twitch despite having come twice in half an hour.

Harry must’ve felt it too because he opened his eyes. Their fingers were still entwined. Draco raised Harry’s hand to his mouth and kissed each of his fingertips.

The Werewolf’s fingers were tipped by black nails caked with mud, sharper than an owl’s talons.

Draco closed his eyes and swallowed back a gag.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he said as Harry thrashed and twisted to escape. “I want you, Harry. I want you to join me at my table for breakfast every morning. I want you to go flying with me again. I want you in my bed, tangled in my sheets, which, by the way, are much nicer than these. I want your head in my lap while we sit by the fire as you read those inane Quidditch rags and laugh at their stupid comics.”

Harry abruptly stopped struggling.

“Hey,” he said. “The comics aren’t stupid. You used to laugh at them sometimes.”

Draco’s heart soared with relief, and he grinned. “Okay,” he said. “A few of them are funny.”

“Will you let me up?” Harry asked after awhile.

“Not if you’re going to get dressed and run away,” Draco replied, meaning it.

“Just my pants,” Harry said. “I need to use the loo, and it’s out in the hall. I don’t want Miss Plumwort to get an eyeful. She’s had a stressful enough day as it is.”

Draco laughed and rolled off Harry and onto his back. The ceiling was painted a hideous light pink and covered with cracks in the plaster that looked like spider webs. He smiled to himself when he thought about how much more he wanted to be in this relative hovel than at the Manor. Octavius and Astoria and her fiancé were probably playing after-brunch cards, and he had no intention of going home yet. He knew he could trust Astoria to politely escort Octavius to the Floo and assure him that Draco would contact him later “when he was feeling more like himself.”

When Harry returned, Draco was already under the cheap sheets and scratchy blanket. He threw them back so that Harry could join him. 

Harry paused, but only for a moment. Then he stripped off his pants and kicked them into a corner along with his jeans and shirts. When Harry joined him, Draco put his arms around him and pulled him close. How had he survived without this? Harry was Harry, and they were them.

The snow turned into rain, and Harry had to get out of bed to put a bucket under a leak, but he came back immediately and snuggled right back into Draco’s arms again. They listened to the plunk, plunk, plunk and dozed on and off. When night fell, they made love again. Afterward they dozed some more, warm and close, their breath against each other’s cheeks and their noses touching.

He woke when he heard the village church’s bell strike nine o’clock and kissed Harry’s mouth, waking him slowly and gently.

“I have to go,” he whispered. He pulled away and sat up. The room was chilly, and all he wanted to do was burrow back under the blankets, warm from their combined body heat, and go back to sleep. But he had to get back to the Manor and face whatever situation awaited him there.

Harry sat up too. His hair was even messier than usual, and his eyes were still half-closed.

“What happens now?” he asked.

Draco got up and looked around for his clothes, bumping his head on a beam in the process and swearing at it. Harry smiled sleepily.

“What happens now,” Draco said, sitting down on the bed again to pull on his socks and boots, “is you get a good night’s sleep and then come to the Manor tomorrow for a late breakfast.”

Harry’s expression grew serious, and he frowned. “I meant what happens now with us?”

Draco pulled him forward into a kiss.

“What happens with us now is that we take things a day at a time and see what happens.”

Harry nodded although he didn’t necessarily look happy. Draco pulled him into another kiss.

“I’m not going to give up on us,” Draco said fiercely. “That I _can_ promise you.”

After a moment, Harry nodded. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

Draco kissed him one last time and then stood up and walked to the door.

“Ten o’clock,” he said. “And I’ll make sure to lock the Crup in the sunroom.”

Draco Apparated to the Manor’s front lawn. His heart was skipping every other beat. He was so happy that when Astoria greeted him in her nightgown and hideous fur-trimmed pea-green robe, he picked her up and spun her around.

She laughed and kissed his cheek. “Scorpius just went to bed,” she said after he put her down again.

“I hope he can sleep after all those bloody sweets he ate,” Draco replied. And then because he had to, he asked where Octavius was.

She grimaced. “He stayed far too long this afternoon,” she said. “It was rather awkward, love. I think he left knowing something was amiss, but you’ll need to speak with him tomorrow about . . . about . . .”

“Me and Harry?” Draco filled in the blank for her. “Of course.”

She bit her lip, and Draco frowned.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Are you sure this shouldn’t be just a one-time thing?” she said. “You and Harry, I mean?”

Draco’s frown deepened. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

She didn’t bother to hide her exasperation. “Because, Draco, he’s a Werewolf!”

“I know!” Draco snapped at her.

“Really?” she asked. “Do you really know? He’ll never be able to leave the Manor . . .”

After spending the day in bed with Harry in his arms, Draco really wasn’t in the mood for this particular conversation.

“We’ll work something out,” he said. “A Glamour or something.”

“If anyone finds out you’re harbouring a Werewolf, you could go to Azkaban,” she continued.

“That’s why nobody’s going to find out,” he countered.

“Think of your son, Draco! Think about what all of this might mean for him! He’ll be living under the same roof as . . .”

“As Harry,” Draco shouted. “He’ll be living under the same roof as Harry.”

She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. “And Harry’s a Werewolf,” she said.

“You keep saying that as if I don’t know when I _do_ know.”

“He’s a monster, Draco. A dangerous monster.”

“But he’s also Harry.”

“Think about things this way then,” she said. “What happens when he drags a deer carcass into the drawing room? Or slaughters the house-elves or, God forbid, a guest? What are you going to do then?”

Draco couldn’t help himself; he shuddered with revulsion at the mere thought of the pictures she’d painted. The image of the coal-black creature with the blood-stained fangs appeared before his eyes, blotting out all memory of Harry in his human form.

He swallowed back frustrated tears.

“You can’t have one without the other,” she said. “Don’t do this to yourself – or to him for that matter – if you can’t handle it.”

“I will handle it, though,” he said weakly. He felt like he’d just lost some kind of battle, although whether the battle was against Astoria or himself, he didn’t know.

“You’re many wonderful things, Draco,” she said, “but you’re not someone who can just forget his upbringing. You were raised in a household that loathed Werewolves even more than other pure-blood families, which is saying something. Your grandfather was a fanatical crusader on the subject.”

Draco turned away and started walking to the stairs. All the hope and happiness he’d felt earlier had been snuffed out by her bucket of cold true reality.

What would he tell Harry when he came to the Manor in the morning?

“I’m sorry, Draco,” Astoria called after him. “It’ll be easier to do it now than a month from now. Although for what it’s worth, I think you should end things with Octavius anyway. He’s rather a bore, and you can do much better.”

* * * *

Something was wrong. The Crup wasn’t in the sunroom. Harry could hear it barking in the front hall.

Draco came to the door at his knock. He looked worse than terrible.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Scorpius caught some kind of virus. He was up all night, and I’m exhausted.”

Harry stared at him. Draco wasn’t even going to ask him to come inside. There was a long awkward silence.

“Uhm,” Harry said at last. “Right. Okay. Well, I’ll just go then. I hope he feels better.”

He turned around and tried to walk away with his head up. It was snowing again. He could feel the flakes melting on the back of his neck, soaking his collar with cold water.

“Harry!” Draco yelled after him. 

Harry turned but he kept his eyes averted from Draco’s face. He knew that if he looked at his face that he’d break down completely.

“I said I’d try,” Draco said. “I meant it.”

Harry nodded, but he still didn’t look at him.

“Good luck with that,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Send me an Owl sometime and let me know how that works out.”

He turned and began walking toward the gates again. He wanted so much to Apparate, but if he did, he was pretty sure he’d Splinch himself.

“Where are you going?” Draco called after him.

Good question. Certainly not back to his room at Miss Plumwort’s.

“It’ll be Christmas soon,” Draco shouted. “Can you go to Gra . . . Hermione’s house?”

Hermione lived under constant Auror surveillance. They hadn’t even been able to Owl each other.

“Harry, please!” Draco pleaded. “Where will you go? Where can I find you?”

He was almost at the gate, but he turned again. Draco didn’t have shoes on and he’d run out onto the front steps. His pale hair blew back in the bitter wind.

He wanted to tell Draco to fuck off and leave him alone, but he couldn’t. Whatever that would require just wasn’t in him. Draco looked miserable. He obviously hadn’t slept at all the night before.

Harry walked back until he was close enough to be heard without having to yell.

“Go back inside,” he said. “You’ll freeze to death out here.”

But Draco made no move.

“Where can I find you?” he asked brokenly.

“I don’t know,” Harry said.

Draco was wearing nothing but a thin dressing robe. He wrapped his arms around himself.

“When will you know?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know that either,” he said. “Christ, Draco, go inside.”

“I don’t want you to walk out of my life,” Draco said, his voice little louder than a whisper.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“How long do you think I can do this?” he asked. “Weeks? Months? Years? How long will it take you not to hate me anymore?”

“I don’t hate you!”

It was becoming rapidly more and more clear that Draco wasn’t going to be able to go inside on his own. Harry approached him and took his arm. At the door, he was met by Astoria.

“Dear Merlin,” she cried. “Draco! What on earth are you doing?”

Draco looked at her as though she’d just come down from the moon. 

She turned to Harry.

“Perhaps you’d like some tea,” she said primly.

Harry shook his head. He’d never understand aristocratic pure-bloods and their bizarre manners. “No thanks,” he said. “I’m just going to stay long enough to make sure he’s not going to die from hypothermia.”

Astoria led Draco to a chair. A thousand house-elves materialised and began plying him with blankets and tea and slippers and even a hot water bottle. Draco ignored all of their ministrations and merely sat staring up into Harry’s face looking helpless and shell-shocked.

“I said I’d try,” he whispered as though he was talking to himself. “I promised.” He reached out his hand, and after a moment, Harry took it. It was terribly cold.

“I don’t know where I’ll be,” Harry said after a moment. “But . . . but I won’t go so far away that I can’t come here when the moon is full.”

Astoria gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Is that a threat?” she asked. “Because if so, please think of our son, Mr. Potter. I don’t want to, but I’ll be forced to contact the Aurors if you come anywhere near him.”

Harry released Draco’s hand and nodded. “Right,” he said. “Well, good-bye.”

“Harry,” Draco whispered.

But this time Harry was finished. He gave Astoria a little bow. She was still covering her mouth with her hand, but this time it was to stop herself from sobbing.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “For both of you.”

Harry nodded. He walked to the door, and a house-elf held it open for him.

“He . . . he won’t stay with that man he was seeing!” Astoria cried after him.

Was she trying to make him feel better? If she was, it wasn’t working.

“You’ll be okay,” she called with forced cheerfulness as he walked through the door. She sounded like she was calling to Scorpius on the Hogwarts Express as it pulled away from the platform. “We’ll never tell anyone about you!”

He didn’t look back. For some reason, even though it was meant to be kind, her final words were the worst thing that anyone had ever said to him in his entire life.

He closed the door on Draco’s voice calling his name.

 

_The Full moon, January 16, 2014_

 

The Werewolf pulled its snout from the deer’s steaming entrails and lifted its head. It had heard something unusual. It was accustomed to the other sounds that drifted through the trees to reach its ears – a bell chiming in the village, the Crup barking from the Big House – but this was the sound of footsteps. Human footsteps.

The Werewolf sniffed the air trying to sense the human’s emotions. If there was hatred, it would kill the human. It was tired of being hated.

But it could smell no hatred. Fear, yes, but no hatred. The fear was a familiar smell. It must’ve smelled this human’s fear before, although where, it couldn’t remember.

Suddenly the moon revealed her face from behind her veil of clouds, and the Werewolf saw her light shine on pale hair.

It was the tall man from the Big House.

As soon as the man saw the Werewolf, he stopped dead in his tracks, and the Werewolf was nearly bowled over by the smell of terror radiating from him. It was a smell the Werewolf knew well. It accompanied every encounter he’d ever had with any living creature. The smell was usually followed by the taste of rage and blood, but the Werewolf would not attack the man with the pale hair because clearly the moon loved him, and anyone or thing the moon loved, the Werewolf loved too.

The man stood looking at the Werewolf for a very long time, and after awhile the Werewolf went back to eating its deer. Maybe the man was hungry but afraid to approach? The Werewolf tore off a chunk of the deer’s flesh and tossed it at the man’s feet. It didn’t like to share its meals, but it would share this one.

The man didn’t eat the deer flesh though. Instead he began walking toward the Werewolf very slowly. The smell of terror had subsided, but the smell of fear remained. The man’s hands were bare, and he held them open as he approached. The Werewolf stood and stepped over the deer carcass. The man froze and the smell of terror returned.

Every time it moved, it frightened the man. Maybe the man wanted it to stay still.

The Werewolf sat down on its haunches. The man was as tall standing as it was when it was sitting. The Werewolf had never encountered a man who could look it straight in the eyes.

The man stopped just before he reached the Werewolf and held out one of his hands. His arm shook like a branch in the wind. The Werewolf let him touch it – its ears, the tip of its snout, the side of its face.

The Werewolf had never been touched before by any living creature. It blinked at the man’s face in bewilderment. Why was the man touching it? It wanted to ask the man, but it knew that it and the man did not share a way to communicate. Only the moon could communicate with the Werewolf when she smiled at it with her kind adoring face.

After awhile, the man reached out his other hand and placed it on the side of the Werewolf’s face, and then the man closed his eyes and leaned forward until his mouth touched the Werewolf’s nose. When he pulled back, the Werewolf blinked at him again.

“You’re not going to hurt me, are you?” the man whispered. But the Werewolf didn’t understand the sounds he made. It just continued staring and blinking.

The man moved closer and knelt down in the snow. He raised both his hands and placed them on the Werewolf’s chest. His skin was warm, and the Werewolf felt his pulse beating wildly in his veins. The warmth felt good. The Werewolf bent down and nuzzled the man’s hair.

The smell of fear was almost gone leaving behind a sweet comforting scent, like the blooms of night flowers in June. The Werewolf inhaled deeply, letting its body relax into the warmth and the scent. It felt sleepy.

Then the man moved one of his hands very slowly and grasped the Werewolf’s penis through its sheath and began to rub it. The Werewolf was startled by the intense sensation, but it realised it was a nice sensation, and it whined its gratitude to the man as its penis began to protrude and stiffen. It looked down into the man’s upturned face.

“Harry,” the man said. “Harry, come for me.”

Somewhere sometime somehow the Werewolf knew it had heard the sound “Harry” before. It liked the sound, and it liked the man’s voice when he made the sound.

Something was happening to the Werewolf’s belly as the man continued to rub its penis. It was a wonderful feeling, better than chasing deer or drinking from a cool rain-filled brook. It whimpered, wanting the feeling to go on forever, but knowing it couldn’t take it if it did. It began pushing its penis against the man’s hand, whimpering continuously.

“Harry,” the man said again, and suddenly the Werewolf felt all of its muscles tighten, tighten, tighten and then release. It had never imagined anything could feel so good. It watched its red penis release a flood of thick white liquid which covered the man’s hand and arm up to his elbow. After a minute, the flood slowed and then stopped, and the Werewolf trembled all over. The man rubbed its penis for awhile longer until the tip became too tender, and the Werewolf nuzzled the man’s hair.

“Harry,” the man said again. “Look at me.”

The Werewolf couldn’t understand him, but it looked at the man’s face anyway because the man was as kind to him as the moon was, and it liked looking at the man’s face just as much as it liked looking at the moon’s. The man raised the hand covered in the thick white liquid that had just come out of the Werewolf’s penis and licked it clean.

The Werewolf couldn’t understand the sounds the man made, but it did understand what licking meant. It meant comfort and acceptance. When the man got to his feet again, the Werewolf licked his face, but its tongue was so large and strong, it almost pushed the man off his feet. The man laughed and grabbed onto one of the Werewolf’s fingers to steady himself. But once he had, he didn’t let go. The Werewolf blinked at him as he slid a piece of the moon unto the finger he was holding and then looked back at the Werewolf’s face.

“I love you,” the man said. There was moon water on his cheeks that tasted like a memory of the sea. “I don’t need to try anymore.”

The man sat down on the ground beside the Werewolf and pulled his cloak around him. The Werewolf could sense that he was cold, and it moved closer to keep him warm with its body heat.

The moon was nearing the end of her journey across the night sky, and the sharp shining sun was starting to rise. The Werewolf and the man sat still looking up at both of them. As it always did just before the moon set, the Werewolf threw back its head and howled its love to her. And after a moment, the man with the moon-pale hair joined its song.


End file.
